


Cut it out and then Restart

by onborrowedwings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 32
Words: 105,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onborrowedwings/pseuds/onborrowedwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Blackwater, Sandor takes Sansa to Riverrun and joins the Starks; Yet the road to redemption is never a simple one, nor is it an easy thing to change one's fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Strictly speaking this is TV Canon, though with a few tweaks it could easily fit into ASOIAF also. There may be some spoilerish things later in the fic, but as they veer off from book canon you should be fairly safe even if you haven't read them. Character ages are as per the TV Series.

"You won't hurt me." she says and looks at him, properly looks at him for the first time. There is no fear on her face now and no pity either, instead there is understanding and a glimmer of...

If he still had a heart then it would've been fit to break at such a look.

"No, little bird, I won't hurt you." he tells her, more gently than he ever has and turns to go. She has made her decision and he will not break her false belief in his goodness by dragging her from here.

He stops before he reaches the door and turns to look back at her, to the beginnings of grief on her face. He could leave her now and be gone quickly with none the wiser but he had made himself a promise. He may be a coward but he can do one last good thing, release the little bird from her gilded cage and help her to fly away.

"Stannis might not hurt you," he tells her, "But he won't bloody well let you fly home either. You'll be a pretty hostage to him to ensure your brother's loyalty. Maybe he'll marry you to one of his men to make sure of it."

He waits, gives her a moment to think about it. He will leave her to her fate if that's her choice.

She takes a deep breath, a breath to still a sudden burst of fear and nods.

He wonders if he is simply the lesser of two evils.

**

She gathers her things quickly, knotting them in a blanket and they are away.

He thrusts his cloak at her roughly but not unkindly. "Take it girl, it's cold out and you'll soon be complaining otherwise."

She wraps it around her shoulders and wonders if it is the same one that he had given her the day Joffrey would have stripped her. It would be fitting perhaps, like a song. A sign of his protection around her shoulders.

Sansa briefly thinks of the moment when a man is supposed to drape a cloak around a woman's shoulders in a sign of protection but no... No.

He takes two horses from the stables but lifts her onto his anyway, large hands warm around her waist. He ties the other horse to his own and climbs up in front of her.

"Till we're past the fighting." he tells her, "Safer this way."

She thinks of the riot, of how he had come back for her then when he never needed to, of the strength in him as he saved her, his hands on her at that time.

She clutches his sides tightly as he sets his horse off at a run.

When they reach the fighting and he pulls out his sword she tucks her head in against his back and closes her eyes.

**

She is quieter than he had expected her to be, courtesies no longer spilling from her lips like afterthoughts. He wonders if she has forgotten them all. He wonders if she thinks they do not apply now, in this place and with him.

They make slow progress north, avoiding the main roads and the fighting.

He can tell that she is exhausted and sore from riding but she never complains and come nightfall she simply collapses gratefully onto the ground, wraps herself in his cloak and goes to sleep.

He could lie next to her, use an excuse of giving her warmth and even put an arm around her as the night went on and she would even be grateful for it perhaps. He does not though, he keeps his distance, keeps his sword close to hand.

A woman's body she might have but she is still a child, dreaming of handsome knights, true knights. He is no knight and has never been true to anyone, but he has sworn to protect her from anyone that would hurt her (even himself).

He might love her if he had a heart to love but he is not certain that he has ever learned how.

She looks at him now, square in the face with no fear or distaste and he knows she sees a protector, a friend. She looks inside him and somehow the stupid little bird sees a good man. She is the first person he remembers who has ever been fool enough to see goodness in him.

He wants her, all gods be damned. He wants her desperately, so badly he aches with it, but even more than that there is some part of him, a part which he had believed long dead, which wants to be the man that she sees when she looks at him.


	2. Cut it out and then Restart

"I wish I was more useful," she laments on the third day as she watches him preparing a rabbit to eat.

She had always made fun of Arya’s tomboyishness and yet Arya would be a better companion on this journey than her. What use are pretty embroidery and courtesies and a skill on the high harp when the kingdom is at war and men are dying? What use is Sansa to anyone except as a pawn in their game?

"No use wishing, little bird." he tells her roughly, looking up from the rabbit. "You want to learn, then learn."

She is still for a moment, his gruffness still affects her, and perhaps she wishes that he would've said something comforting instead, about it being a pleasure to serve a lady as lovely as her. Something that a true knight would've said. 

But the knights at court, for all their pleasant courtesies, had been quick enough to beat her when it was asked of them and the Hound, for all of his rudeness, has only ever helped her.

So Sansa steels herself and steps forward, seats herself by his side and begins to learn.

**

He teaches her what he can while they travel, how to care for a horse, make a fire, set a trap, prepare an animal for eating. Some of it she wrinkles her pretty nose at but she completes the tasks anyway, flashing him a brilliant, proud smile whenever she succeeds at something.

"Perhaps when I see Arya again she will be proud of me." his little bird comments sadly, and he simply grunts. Nobody has seen her sister since Ned Stark's arrest and whether she's alive or dead is not for him to say.

When they have been on the road for more than two weeks, making slow but steady progress, he decides it is time to teach her to protect herself.

He teaches her the best way to strike a man, to kick him or stab him. He teaches her how to avoid blows or lessen them, how to escape from an arm lock. She is soft and warm against him as he demonstrates and he curses himself for a fool. He wishes he could hold her tighter, for longer. He wishes she would kick him in his blasted balls so he could start thinking with his head instead. 

She half worships him already as her saviour and he knows that with some pretty words he could convince her easily enough that the gratitude she feels is really love. He could take her far away from here, somewhere that her family would never find her, and keep her safe from everything and everyone. 

Except from himself.

When he judges she is ready he gives her his dagger to keep and watches as she pulls it from its scabbard, her eyes filled with both wonder and fear and a thank you on her lips.

Her expression grows sad as she considers the knife in her hands.

"A man tried to kill my little brother with a dagger," she whispers, "If my mother and Bran's direwolf had not been there then he would be dead now."

He realises that she does not know, that nobody has told her of her younger brothers' deaths. It is not surprising, in the chaos that King’s Landing had been in the past weeks he doubts that the Queen considered it important enough. 

He could allow her to keep believing that they are alive and safe. It would be a kindness to conceal it until she is with her mother, who will know how to break the news best.

But he has had so little practice with kindness over the years that all he can think is, better she knows. Better she knows to grieve and be done with it. 

So he tells her, hesitating over the words, trying to be gentle when he has no idea how to be.

"Both of your younger brothers are dead, little bird." he tells her, "Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell for his father and killed them when they tried to escape. Then he burned the castle to the ground."

The knife slips from her fingers and he sees a bloom of red appear on one but she does not notice. She is staring at him in horror, shaking her head, no, no, it is not possible. She tries to turn away so she doesn't have to see the truth in his eyes.

He reaches out and grasps her chin, turns her to look at him so that she must accept it. Nods at her once, places his other hand on her shoulder to grip it. "I'm sorry." he tells her, as gently as he knows how.

She lets out a howl of anguish and collapses against his chest sobbing, her hands clutching his tunic.

He should've waited, should've let her mother tell her, but that would've been a false kindness to her in only delaying the grief. 

He does not know how to comfort her, he has had little enough comfort in his own life to be able to learn.

Words of comfort would be false so he does not say them but he places one hand on her back to press her to him and the other on her hair, which he strokes slowly. He seems to remember that his mother had done that once when he had wept at some cruelty of Gregor's.

After some time she quiets and pulls away, still snuffling slightly. She pulls a handkerchief out to wipe her eyes and then turns to look at him, so sorrowful that it could break his heart, if he had one.

"How could he do it?" she asks him, her voice breaking, "Theon... He grew up with us, was treated just like one of us. Robb loved him like a brother... He was almost a brother."

He is still for a moment.

"Be grateful that he was only almost a brother." he tells her, more harshly than intended. "There's those who've done worse to their actual blood."

Her eyes flicker and he knows she understands, knows that he is talking about Gregor.

He had heard that the Greyjoy boy had burned her brothers, though he’ll never tell her so. He thinks that one day maybe he'll get the opportunity to make the little cunt pay for it. Perhaps Theon Greyjoy will also burn before the end. He cannot bring her brothers back but he can do that much for her.

She nods, and takes a deep breath in, then bends down to pick up the knife she dropped.

When she stands up again she looks at him with something more than understanding, something approaching kinship.

He wishes that she wouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from these wonderful Florence + The Machine lyrics “And I am done with my graceless heart, So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart”


	3. Chapter 3

"I'll take you to Riverrun, little bird. Your mother is there, and your brother. You'll be safe with them."

She has been even quieter since he told her, and attacks the tasks he sets her with a dedication he has not seen before. There is a quiet fury in her that he had always suspected, buried deep beneath all of her courtesies.

At night he sometimes hears her crying as she lies on her side facing away from him but he does not go to comfort her. 

It is not his place. 

He would not know how.

She would not wish him to.

She turns to look at him as her horse plods alongside his.

"And you?" she asks, "What will you do next? Would you stay if I asked you to?"

He had not decided. His head is forfeit in the south and her brother could not be a worse master than the Lannisters. 

He could also choose to go far away instead, travel across the sea and be done with Westeros once and for all, be done with her. He could live out his days as a sellsword or bodyguard there and kill a different type of man.

"And would that make you happy, little bird?" he asks her mockingly, "To be able to present your brother with a loyal dog on your return?"

She flinches, looks away and he thinks that she will drop the subject but she turns back to him.

"You should not speak of yourself like that." she tells him softly with a hint of reproach, a proper little lady once more. 

"And how should I speak of myself?" he bites back, "I've always been a loyal dog, a bloody hound, ready to do the bidding of my masters no matter what it was."

She brings her horse closer and reaches over hesitatingly, lays a small hand over his where it holds the reins.

"Not always." she answers softly and he realises that she is right. When it comes to her he has never been able to blindly obey.

"Aye," he answers after some time when she has removed her hand. "Not always."

She is quiet again and for awhile he thinks that is the end of the matter once and for all.

"It would make me happy if you would stay." she tells him. "You could fight for my brother, not as a dog but as your own free man. You could help him win his battles and take back the North and take me home like you promised."

Like he had promised. He has never been one for oaths and promises.

He wants to push her away, to scoff at her foolish hopes and crush them but he cannot bring himself to. 

He sighs and wonders whether she's the greater fool or he is.

"If it will make you happy then I'll stay, little bird." he tells her finally. "And fight your Kingly brother's battles for him if he’ll have me.”

She smiles at him, so brightly that he wonders if he could go blind from it.

"And when I take you to my brother, should I tell him that you are my sworn shield, bound to protect me?" she asks, her voice hopeful and so very young.

Silly little romantic fool, he thinks, head still filled with nonsense about knights and chivalry.

But she is looking at him in such a way…

He cannot refuse her and so he nods. "Aye, little bird, you tell him that. Maybe it’ll help to keep my head on my shoulders awhile longer."

\--

He delivers her to Riverrun as promised. 

They are spotted by scouts as they approach. He is immediately recognised and there are swords drawn and crossbows notched before he can even speak.

He does not need to, for his little bird has brought her horse forward bravely, as if to place it protectively between him and the men.

"I am Lady Sansa Stark, sister of the King of the North." she announces in a voice that will brook no opposition. "I command you to bring myself and my sworn shield to either my brother His Grace or my lady mother."

It is a voice worthy of a queen and well done. As he looks over at her he sees her hands trembling and white as they clutch the reins of her horse.

He gives her a small nod of approval, and she lets out a tense breath.

**

They are brought to her mother, inside the keep.

He dismounts outside and lifts her down, barely enough time to let go of her before her mother is running into the bailey and his little bird is rushing into her arms, sobbing and babbling and so very, very glad.

He forgets sometimes just how young she is.

Her mother grasps Sansa's face with both hands, plants kisses all over it and then hugs her tightly all over again.

"My brave girl, my beautiful girl. Look how you've grown!" she exclaims, "But how did you get here and where's Arya? Surely Lady Brienne did not reach King's Landing so quickly?"

They stare at each other in momentary confusion. Sandor steps forward out of the shadows. He sees her mother's face blanche momentarily, before she looks questioningly at her daughter.

"Sandor Clegane rescued me when Lord Stannis attacked the city," he hears the little bird tell her mother. She does not call him Ser, she has learned well. "He accompanies me now as my sworn shield. I do not know who Lady Brienne is." he sees her look down, tears building. "I don't know where Arya is, I haven't seen her since father was arrested." 

Grief and fear is fresh on her mother's face and she turns to him with wary eyes. "I thank you for saving my daughter, Ser." she tells him courteously, though he knows there is much more she would say. "Please accompany us inside."

He follows them in, a loyal dog at their heels.

\--

It is a week before her brother arrives back.

A week in which Sandor broods, drinks, and appears by her side whenever she is outside of hers or her mother’s rooms. He would train if he could but he has surrendered his sword until her brother returns. A false security, but one that he had to agree to. Sansa knows that if he truly wanted to he could seize a sword at any time and kill them all but it makes her brother’s men feel safer while they still gaze at him with wary eyes.

Sansa sits with her mother most often, by her grandfather's side and they speak of her father, of her brothers, of Arya and times past. They speak of Robb too and of his victories but almost never of King's Landing. 

Sansa knows that her mother wishes to, that she wants to know what was done there, but somehow she cannot bring herself to speak of it. It is too fresh in her mind, the wounds still too raw.

The only thing that her mother insists on knowing is how she escaped, and why she is accompanied by Sandor Clegane of all people.

"Stannis Baratheon's forces were attacking the city," Sansa tells her mother, "And the Queen feared defeat. She had ordered Ser Illyn to kill us if the city were to fall and I escaped to my own room when I could. Ser Sandor came to me there and offered to take me away, to protect me." She will not call him Ser to his face, she knows better than that, but here with her mother she must call him something and she will not use the Lannisters’ name for him.

"But why did he offer to take you away?" her mother asks, "He has always been the Lannisters’ loyal man, and carried out his share of ill deeds for them without hesitation. Why has he left them now to pledge his allegiance to you? Can we trust this man or is it a plot to harm Robb?"

In truth, Sansa does not know why he has chosen to give her his protection and allegiance, though she has asked herself about it again and again while they were on the road. 

He was leaving because the fire terrified him, she understands that well enough, but not why he took her with him, nor why he has agreed to stay now to fight for her brother. He has called her stupid, mocked her for naivety, made her think that he hated her at times. Yet all of his harshness has had a purpose and she is stronger now for it, less a child and more a woman. If he had been a knight, full of courteous words, then she would have believed that he had done it for love of her. But no, that is not possible.

What she does know is that there is a gentleness in him when he looks at her. What she does know, is that she trusts him above all men, that he will never betray her.

"It’s not a plot, and he won’t betray us. Joffrey did not deserve his loyalty, were he what you think of him then he would have never left. There is goodness in him," she tells her mother, "No matter what he may have done in the past. He may never have taken knight's vows but he tried to protect me when..." she trails off, she will not speak of it all, not yet. "He did his best to protect me from Joffrey's cruelty." she finishes instead.

"What did they do to you, Sansa?" her mother asks horrified, but Sansa turns her head and will not answer.

Her mother embraces her, rocks her back and forth, and Sansa realises belatedly that by her omission her mother believes her to be no longer innocent.

Once the thought would have bothered her, when she believed a lady's virtue was her most precious possession. 

Now Sansa thinks of the riot and of what those men might have done to her, she thinks of the King’s court and of Joffrey ordering her to be stripped bare. She thinks of Sandor at both of those times, of his cloak around her shoulders, of his hands lifting her up, gentle upon her. 

She is just a broken little bird and it would be a lie to tell her mother that she is still whole.

She stays silent, and allows the misunderstanding to remain.


	4. Chapter 4

Her kingly brother arrives back from his latest battle with a young bride by his side.

Catelyn Stark’s lips are tight and her expression grim though she welcomes the girl graciously all the same.

Even Sandor, who has never taken much of an interest in politics, knows that the boy was promised to a Frey. Knows that this weakness might end up costing Robb Stark his war.

The King of the North has not noticed Sandor yet where he stands in the shadows, nor Sansa where she stands slightly in front of him, and Sandor takes the time to measure him.

Robb Stark is no longer a boy, and yet not quite yet a man. There is steel in him and courage, though perhaps not the wisdom that he will need to win his war. Whatever the boy's failings might be, Sandor is in no doubt that he will be a better king than Joffrey, a better master to serve. There is respect on the faces of the men around them, respect which would have been hard won.

Then Lady Stark is saying, "We have Sansa back at last." and her brother is turning, an expression of surprised happiness on his face. Sansa steps forward and he embraces her tightly, lifts her up and whirls her around, laughing in his joy.

“I worried that we’d never see you again,” her brother tells her, “And look at you, you’re so much taller than when you left…” He hugs her to him again. 

They are happy in that moment and he almost envies her the closeness of family, the presence of those who love her. Then his little bird is whispering something back to her brother and they both turn to face him, a smile on Sansa's face, a frown on Robb's.

"Let us go somewhere more private to speak." Lord Robb announces and holding a hand out for his lady wife, he turns to lead the way.

**

They adjourn to Catelyn Stark's quarters; the family members including Lady Stark’s Tully brother and uncle, and Sandor as the centre of focus. Robb Stark's young wife accompanies them also, he announces that he has no secrets from her. After giving up a valuable alliance for her hand, one would bloody well hope so.

"Your swap could not have worked so quickly," Robb Stark comments to his mother with a frown, "There would not have been enough time for Lady Brienne to take the Kingslayer there and come back with Sansa. And where is Arya? How has this happened?"

"This is not the result of my swap," Lady Stark replies, "The Hound freed Sansa the night Lord Stannis attacked King's Landing and brought her here. There has been no sign of Arya since Ned was arrested."

The news of his little sister’s disappearance gives him pause but then Robb is once again frowning. "Then you need not have freed the Kingslayer after all." is his reply and it strikes Sandor that it is the thought of a King rather than a brother. 

"No," his lady mother agrees quietly, "I need not have."

Robb Stark’s young wife stands by his side, silent and watching the interplay between the family members. She must have expected to come to them as the centre of attention, for the resulting disapproval over Robb’s choice of her. Instead she finds herself relegated to the second order of business, forgotten for the moment. Sandor wonders if she’s relieved to escape from their attention for some time or disappointed. He supposes that the eventual confrontation between mother and son would anyway not take place within her hearing. 

He turns his eyes to Sansa, where she stands by her mother. She watches them all, holding herself as if in preparation for something, though he knows not what. Perhaps his little bird thinks to speak up on his behalf and convince her brother that he’s a good man underneath all of his anger and violence. He wants to laugh at the very thought. 

It is then that Robb Stark turns to Sandor, and he holds himself tall in preparation for what must be said. 

"You have my gratitude for saving my lady sister," Robb tells him, "You will be duly rewarded for it."

It is all that Sandor can do not to snarl at him for the presumption that he is a dog come begging for a bone. "I didn't do it for any reward." he replies harshly.

"Then why did you do it?" her brother asks him, his tone hard, wary. “Why did you leave the Lannisters’ service at last?”

The little bird's eyes are on him and he does not know what truth he could possibly say. Because he is a bleeding craven and could not face the fire, because he could no longer stand by and watch as Joffrey’s cruelty grew day by day. Because he has never wanted anything in his life so much as he wants Sansa Stark, and he would do anything to keep her safe from harm. 

None of these reasons can ever be said and least of all to her brother. 

“A dog can only be kicked so many times before it seeks a new master.” He finally rasps. “King Joffrey grows more like Aerys by the day and I’ll not burn for his madness. I never swore any vows and I’ll be buggered if I’ll die for some crazy bastard that needs to be put down.” He pauses here, thinks over his next words carefully. “I saved your sister because I could." almost as an afterthought, "Because she deserved better."

He can feel the little bird's eyes turn towards him from where she stands by her mother. There is a bright spark in them and he thinks that he should not have said the last part, that he should have just accepted a reward and then gotten himself as far away as possible from here.

Her brother opens his mouth to reply but it is the little bird who speaks first.

"Sandor Clegane tried to protect me when I was in King's Landing, from Joffrey's cruelty. There were many knights there... But none of them true. While he may not be a knight he was the only one who never hurt me on the king's behalf, who tried to keep me safe. He is a truer knight than all of them." her voice is sad, bitter, and her brother tenses at the words, a horror on his face as he thinks on what they may have done to her.

"Then you have my deepest gratitude," Lord Robb tells Sandor, "And I would know what you would do now."

Sandor clears his throat, the noise harsh. It is a mistake he knows, but he cannot bring himself to break her faith or leave her. "I have promised Lady Sansa that I will stay to protect her and be her sworn shield. I would fight for you also. I know the Lannisters, know their tricks."

Her brother is silent and Sandor knows that he is tossing over the possibilities in his mind. A soldier like Sandor is worth twenty ordinary men, and yet his loyalty must be questioned now that he is a turncoat.

"You were ever a loyal Lannister man before now," Robb finally says, "If you swear me vows of fealty, how should I trust them?"

"I'll fight for you, and help to win your war but I'll swear no oaths." Sandor replies, "What promises I had to make, I've made to your lady sister already, and I'll not break them."

"I'll swear to his honour, Robb." the little bird chirps, "He'll not betray you."

"Then I will take you on my sister's word," Lord Robb announces, his manner still wary, "And hope that she is right."

The little bird looks at him, eyes shining with pride and he is certain that she will end up being the death of him after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Soon enough there are battles to be fought and he is to be sent with a company to prove himself. Her great uncle the Blackfish is to be in command and there will be plenty of killing to be done. He almost aches to be on the field again with a blade in his hand, there is almost nothing as sweet as killing to make you forget and he is desperate for an outlet for his frustrations.

She seeks him out the morning that he is to depart, slightly away from the eyes of others.

"You'll come back safely won't you?" she asks anxiously and he scoffs. 

"Do I look like I can see the bloody future, girl?" he asks with more bite than he’d intended.

She twists her hands anxiously, looking abashed and he regrets his harsh tongue all too soon. "I'll try my best, little bird." he adds, a touch more softly. Another damned promise to try and keep.

"I will be praying for your safe return." she tells him earnestly and he bites his tongue, resists the urge to tell her that there are no gods and that even if there were no prayers could possibly intercede on his behalf.

"You do that, for whatever good it'll do." he tells her instead, wondering if she really will. "If I come back safely then I'll claim a song from you as reward." 

"I'll give it to you gladly." she tells him, suddenly bright eyed and steps forward holding something tightly in her hands.

"I would," she hesitates, tongue stumbling over the words, "I would give you my favour to wear."

He realizes she's worried that he'll mock her for it, and once he would have. But she'll pray for him, when nobody ever has, give him a song happily if he returns and mourn for him if he dies and he can do this much for her at least. Make her happy in whatever way he can. There’s few enough ways that he knows how.

The strip of fabric is light blue and he recognises it as coming from a dress she had once worn on the journey here, now ruined by the blood stain of some man he had slain to protect her. It is a fitting token for him.

He has never before worn any lady's favour, either in tourney or on the battlefield, never been offered one, and something inside him twists painfully as she holds it out. 

"Tie it on then, girl." he tells her gruffly and holds out his sword for her to do so. She does so quickly, her fingers light and quick. He looks upon her as she does so and can almost believe that he is one of her true knights.

Her hands linger when she's done and he reaches to briefly cover them with one of his own.

"My thanks, little bird." he tells her, and wishes that he was better with words, that he knew what to say to please her. He’s a buggering stupid fool for all the good such thoughts will do him. She smiles brightly anyway and leaves him then, headed back to the mother that watches her so carefully now that she has only two children left.

He joins the other men of the company with a few nods and murmurs. They do not trust him yet but they know his skill and are glad to have him on their side. King Robb has too few men now with the loss of the Freys and the Karstarks who deserted when his mother freed the Kingslayer.

It is not long before someone notices the favour and thinks to mock him for it.

"Lady Sansa once had a direwolf for a pet," A knight remarks, "And now she's managed to tame herself a hound as well."

They all laugh but he ignores it, his face impassive.

Let them all laugh but let them remember that he is hers, even though she will never be his.

**

Sansa’s new goodsister insists on continuing to treat the injured men in the camp and Sansa for lack of anything better to do begins to accompany her, first watching her at her tasks to learn and then lending a hand when she can. She has had enough of sitting in Riverrun’s solar and being useless, enough of enforced idleness.

Her mother had opposed her wish, scared that something might happen to Sansa as she tended to the wounded. Her brother was also resistant to the idea at first, “Talisa has been doing this for years,” he tells her, “You’ll only get in her way.” When she insists that she can learn he changes his argument, “It’s not proper for the King of the North’s sister to tend to the soldiers.”

“It’s proper enough for your wife.” Sansa replies. Once upon a time she wouldn’t have dared, once upon a time she would never have wished to dirty her hands with mud and blood in the first place. 

Talisa backs her up, claiming that she will be a great help. Robb cannot refuse his new wife anything so Sansa soon has her way.

She begins on her rounds with Talisa five days before Sandor rides away to battle, and she thinks that he at least approves. He does not say so, but when she had carried her point to Robb his lips had quirked in an almost smile. Before he left he had accompanied them every day, standing guard and stepping in to do some service when he was required. 

She misses him now as she goes out with Talisa, misses his solid presence at her back.

Sansa balks at amputations, preferring to leave the tent when they are carried out but she has found that her embroidery skills are useful for something other than pretty patterns. She has learnt to clean wounds, bandage them and sew them up when need be and it fills her with a strong sense of pride to know that she has helped someone, has eased their suffering or ensured that their scarring will be less.

She talks with Talisa sometimes as she works and finds herself admiring Robb’s foreign wife. Sansa thinks that Talisa is fearless and wonders if someday she could be too. There is still so much to fear though, and Sansa often wakes screaming from nightmares featuring her brothers and father, nightmares that she is back in King’s Landing, once again at Joffrey’s mercy.

Sansa is not brave, not truly, but she is trying very hard to be. 

Her sworn shield has been gone a week and she finds herself thinking of him more often than not. She prays for his safe return in the godswood and the sept, wondering if he would mock her if he knew. It matters not; her prayers are hers to give whether he would have them or no. 

Of her brother and mother she sees little. Robb is constantly with his bannermen, discussing plans and strategies, overseeing the improvement of the castle’s defenses or out being seen by his men. He is a man now, and a king besides, and he has little time for a younger sister. Her mother is busy with the running of the castle and the care of Sansa’s grandfather. Sansa accompanies her mother sometimes, but there is so much grief and fear in her lady mother that Sansa does not know how to comfort or reassure her, how to make any of it better. It is far easier to spend her days with Talisa, feeling useful and away from her mother’s fearful gaze. 

The men of the camp hail her happily when they see her, with a respect that she hopes is not entirely due to her brother. She will sing for the injured sometimes and she likes to think that it gives them comfort, that she is useful in this way as well. 

The family is together at meal times and more often than not joined by her uncle Edmure. At those times her mother and brother and uncle will discuss strategy and Sansa will listen and learn. She does not want to be ignorant, to sit back and wait for the men to win the war. She wants… she does not really know what it is that she wants.

The days continue like this until it has been two weeks and she begins to wonder if he is ever coming back, or if she has lost him as well.

The thought makes her hands tremble, and she pauses in her work until she can regain control.

She has just finished her latest patient when Robb enters the tent, obviously cheerful. He pauses to kiss his wife soundly, leading to hollers amongst the men before he strides over to where she is washing her hands. 

She gives him a bright smile as she wipes her hands dry on her apron, pleased that he has come to see her.

“I thought you would like to know that our great uncle and his men have been successful in their campaign and routed the latest Lannister incursion.” He tells her, “They should be returning within two days.”

“I am so happy to hear it, brother.” She tells him sincerely, wanting to ask about Sandor but hesitating, unsure of the best way to do so. She is still making her mind up about how to proceed when Robb chooses to continue. 

“That sworn shield of yours has fought well in the battles,” he remarks, “He’s proven himself to be a useful dog, now let’s just hope that he’s loyal as well.”

The old Sansa might have let such a comment pass and merely smiled demurely, the old Sansa would probably not have cared at all.

This new Sansa however, who is learning to be brave, frowns and fixes her eyes upon her brother’s face. “I would not have you call him that.” She tells Robb.

“Call him what? Dog?” Robb scoffs, “It is what the Lannisters have referred to him as all these years and he has never had any problem with it. ‘The Hound’ he calls himself proudly.”

“But you are not a Lannister.” Sansa persists, steel in her voice “And he no longer serves them. He protected me and he saved me, and it would please me if you would not refer to him in that way. You may call him The Hound if you wish but never dog. I would have…” she pauses now, the words difficult, “I would have you treat him better than Joffrey did, and you will see how loyally he serves you.”

She clenches her hands in her apron to stop them shaking. She has never before challenged her elder brother, has never wished to. 

Robb looks at her as if he is suddenly seeing her in an entirely new light. The silence between them stretches on and Sansa wonders if she has gone too far in challenging him before he finally speaks. “You’ve grown up, little sister.” He finally tells her, a measure of sadness in his words. “And grown wiser too. You are right, I would not wish to emulate the Lannisters. I will treat this sworn shield of yours well and see what it brings me.”

She smiles at him, slightly tremulous and he smiles in return. “Thank you, Robb.” She tells him sincerely. “You are a good king.”

He laughs then, “If it was not Sandor Clegane that we were talking about then I would worry that you had formed an attachment to him.” He tells her, and grins at his own joke. 

“Don’t be silly, brother.” Sansa replies, her expression carefully schooled and he leaves laughing. It is only once he has turned around that Sansa allows her smile to falter. 

There is an attachment to be sure, but… she will not think on it. 

Resolutely, she moves to the next patient.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is singing when he returns.

She is singing when he returns, sitting by the bedside of some poor bastard who has probably been dying for weeks now. A hymn to the mother, her voice is sweet and gentle and he does not doubt that it is a comfort to men in pain. The few patients remaining in this tent are all doomed, only lingering now against their inevitable end.

Before she can spot him he dismisses the guards within the tent quietly, intent upon being alone with her for some time at least. 

“I’ll have a more cheerful song than that from you when you’re done,” he rasps and she starts, spins quickly to face him. 

There is a happiness on her face when she sees him that is almost alien, he has never been one to inspire happiness before. She rises quickly and crosses to meet him, stopping a couple of feet away.

“I am so relieved to see you returned safely,” she tells him sincerely. “My brother told me yesterday that you were on the way back but I had not looked for your arrival so soon.”

“Aye, a smaller party rode ahead to give notice of our arrival.” He admits, “I’ve just come from reporting to your brother.” 

He has shed his armour but is still in the same clothes, doubtless stinking of sweat and blood and dust besides. He should have cleaned himself up first before coming here but for two weeks he has thirsted for a sight of her, longed for the smile she might give him on his return.

Not for the first time, he curses himself for a besotted fool.

She is looking him over as if searching for something and he sees her eyes pause at his arm and side, where blood stains his tunic. “Are you injured?” she asks him softly, taking another step closer.

“Just a couple of scratches,” he admits, “Nothing to worry about.” 

A couple of scratches inflicted by overeager Lannister bannermen, eager to claim the reward that Joffrey’s bitch of a mother has placed on his head. He will need to have his dog’s head helm melted down to make something less conspicuous for the field if he wants to lessen further attempts. He’s just about had enough of men screaming “Turncoat” and “Craven” at him as they try to ride him down.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she tells him primly, “I will not have the treatment of my sworn shield neglected. Lift your tunic and let me see.”

He laughs at her ordering him about and shakes his head at her but moves to comply anyway. He shows her his arm first, and then lifts his tunic partially for her to see his side. She pulls the bandages down and tuts at the wounds, inspecting them thoroughly and he can’t help but feel a rush of pride to see her so confident in her work.

She has grown while he has been away, grown more surely into herself. 

“The wounds are clean and has been bandaged well, they are already healing.” She announces when her inspection is over, “But if I were to stitch the one on your side it would mend faster and the risk of infection would be lessened.”

“Don’t have enough people to practice your embroidery on already?” he grumbles, but he does not mean to refuse her. 

“Go and get cleaned up and change your clothes first,” she tells him, her tone brooking no opposition.

“Anything else, m’lady?” he mutters under his breath but he has to struggle to suppress a smile when he compares her to the girl she used to be, too frightened to even look at his face. 

So he does as she commands and finds himself some fresh clothes before heading to the bath house to wash two weeks’ worth of dust and sweat from his skin. He leaves the bandages for her to unravel, knowing enough of healing to know that it’s best. 

He returns to her washed and clean, his hair still damp where it hangs over his face half obscuring the burned side and he wishes…

“There, much more presentable.” Sansa teases, beaming at him and for a moment he forgets that he will never truly be presentable in any way.

She has been busy while he was gone, laying out her tools on a small table. Needle and thread and boiled wine, his little bird has learned a new song to chirp. 

She gestures for him to sit on a spare pallet and takes her own seat beside him, a careful distance still between them.

“Lift your tunic,” she instructs him, ever so primly and he moves to obey before a part of him rebels, lifting the tunic off completely and throwing it aside.

She stares at him wide eyed for a moment before averting her eyes and blushing prettily. 

“What? Never seen a man’s chest before while you were stitching him up?” he challenges her, “I’ll wager it’s no harder to look on than my face is. If you think I’m going to sit here holding my bloody tunic up while you take your time with your stitches then you’re daft.”

She bites her lip but turns to face him, eyes lowered from his face and cheeks still red. She unwinds the bandage from his arm first, cleaning the wound again and then re-bandaging it. Her fingers are feather light as she does so and deft and he can’t remember…

“I’ll have that song from you now little bird, to distract me as you sew.” He rasps and she looks up finally, fixing deep blue eyes upon him and nods, giving him a tiny shy smile.

She begins to sing as she unwinds the bandages around his torso, some song about knights and fair maidens, and he allows himself to relax, watching her at her work. 

This wound stings when she cleans it as do her stitches but apart from a couple of grunts he takes it well, and concentrates on her singing, her clear voice washing over him. She is finished before he knows it, too soon, a part of him whispers and as she winds fresh bandages into place. 

She finishes her bandage and her song at the same time, but does not move away. Instead she allows her right hand to rest briefly on his body, her fingers soft on his skin just above the bandage she’s tied.

He breathes in sharply. It has been such a long time since anyone has touched him willingly or with such tenderness. Perhaps it has been never. He cannot help himself and he moves one large hand to cover hers, pressing it more firmly to his chest with an almost urgency. He can feel her fingers splayed against him now, soft as a bird’s feathers.

She looks up at him with a nervousness in her gaze and he can’t help but think that she must never have touched a man before like this, as innocent as it is. Must never have laid her pretty hand on anyone’s bare skin except to heal. It arouses a strange pride in him to think that he is the first for this at least. 

He should move his hand, let go of her, leave and walk away but he cannot. He looks down at her instead and keeps looking, because she is gazing at him in such a way… 

“And did you pray for me, little bird?” he rasps finally, and feels her fingers flex against his skin. 

He lifts her hand from his body then but continues clutching it, unwilling to let go just yet.

“I did,” she whispers, looking down to where his hand clasps hers, firmly encircling her fingers. “I did not know which gods you keep so I prayed to both the old and the new.”

He laughs then and it is almost joyous. “I keep no gods, little bird.” He tells her, “Nor would they wish to save me if I did but perhaps they’ll look on your prayers more kindly.”

He lets her go then and she shuffles a little away from him on the pallet, suddenly shy. Sandor shrugs his tunic back on and stands, looking down at her as she studies her feet.

“It was a sweet song, little bird.” He tells her as he turns to the door. He does not see the small smile on her face as she watches him go.

**

With no battles to fight for the moment, Riverrun is soon once again busy with her brother’s forces.

There are knights in her brother’s camp, and lords too. Many are young and fair of face and brave as well to hear the tales told of them. Some attempt to gain her favour, seeking her out to praise her or offer her small tokens of their affection. 

Her brother finds it amusing, her mother advises her to thank them but allow no familiarity.

Sansa wants none of them. 

She thanks them prettily enough when she cannot avoid it but they are a year or two too late, a year or two removed from the Sansa who would have kept their tokens carefully and blushed at their words and chosen a favourite.

Now when she sees them she finds herself measuring them instead, and they all come up lacking. They would all have beaten me if it was asked of them, she finds herself thinking instead. They would all have lost their chivalry soon enough.

When Sandor is with her he steps back when the men approach, removing himself from the equation. He stays near enough to protect her if she should need it but she wishes that he would remain by her side, just a step behind, and glare at them as they delivered their lines or gifts instead.

“I am so tired of this,” she whispers one day when the latest knight has left. She feels ashamed at begrudging them a few courtesies when most likely at least half of them will die before this war is done but she cannot help it. Sandor has stepped back into place by her side and she looks up at him, meeting his eyes. She finds herself looking at him more often these days for no reason at all. He tries to keep his good side to her, but she has long since ceased to care.

“A bunch of mewling youths, but there’s no harm in them.” He grunts, “I remember a time when you liked nothing more than to receive a pretty knight’s tokens.”

He is talking about the Knight of the Flowers, Sansa realizes. She wonders idly if Loras Tyrell would also have beaten her if it was asked of him. She hopes not, there is still a part of her that wishes to believe that there are true knights in the world, good knights. 

“Useless buggers it’s true, but they’re not all like the ones in King’s Landing.” Sandor tells her as if he’s guessed her train of thought. “Your brother will find you a good one someday.” 

“I do not want a knight.” Sansa half whispers without thinking. She does not truly know what she wants anymore, only that she wants to be a different girl to the one she was before her father’s death. She does not know what she wants, though a part of her whispers that perhaps she does…

Sansa looks up to find Sandor’s gaze dark upon her, his expression odd. She cannot help but think of him as he was when she stitched his side; his chest bare, his skin warm beneath her hand, the roughness of his hands as he clasped her own. She remembers the way her heart had beat so madly in her chest that she was sure he must have been able to hear it. She still does not know what possessed her to touch him in such a way except for a moment of madness. If her brother or anybody else had seen them in that way then he might have been expelled from the camp. 

“No, not a knight.” She repeats, looking intently up at his face. He reaches towards her for a moment and then seems to change his mind, his arm returning to his side. Instead he turns away and resumes walking towards the keep, giving her no choice but to follow. 

No, she thinks as she keeps her eyes fixed on his broad back, knights are not what she dreams of anymore. 

More than that she cannot yet say.


	7. Chapter 7

Sandor is guarding Sansa and her mother as they eat their midday meal when her brother enters, his face troubled. He does not stop to ask Sandor to leave as he sometimes does when matters of importance are to be discussed. Perhaps he does not see him where he stands by the wall or perhaps he does not care. 

“Lord Frey has refused our renewed terms of alliance.” He informs Lady Catelyn without any preamble, taking a seat at the table. “He has learned that Sansa has been returned to us and says that they will not accept Uncle Edmure in my place unless she is also offered in marriage.”

Lady Catelyn sighs, “I had offered them Arya once but we do not know if she will ever return to us. Lord Frey knows that we need him, I should have expected this.”

“What reply should I send him? We need the Crossing in order to avoid a long drawn out war. We cannot have enemies there too as we proceed North.”

It is the little bird rather than her mother who speaks up however. “No.” Sandor hears her say, so quietly that it could almost have been missed. 

Robb turns to face her, surprised, almost as if he had forgotten that she might like to have a say in the matter. 

“Sansa…” he begins but she cuts him off. 

“I do not wish to marry a Frey.” She tells him, looking into his face. “Do not ask this of me, Robb.”

“Nothing has been decided yet,” her mother tries to soothe her, as if they had not been about to decide her fate for her there and then. “I know that after… after what you’ve been through, that the idea of marriage would scare you but it need not be a bad thing.”

Sandor knows how it is, dutiful highborn daughters are meant to obey their elders when it comes to marriage. If her brother and mother decide that she must marry this Frey, then sooner or later she’ll have to give in. He promises himself that he’ll be damned before he allows that to happen, she will not be married off unwillingly and especially not to a worthless Frey. He’s stolen her once before and he can bloody well do it again.

“They may give you your choice of a husband,” her brother tells her, “And there are many to choose from.” He smiles as if hoping that his joke will lighten the mood.

“You had your choice from among them and you chose not to take it.” Sansa reminds him, a hint of steel in her voice. Her brother flinches slightly, he knows his guilt in this matter, knows but still expects his sister to fix the problems caused by his choice. 

Sandor’s hand unconsciously drifts to his sword hilt before he forces it away, this is a time to listen and wait, not threaten bloodshed. 

Sansa’s mother reaches out to touch her hand. “This is an important alliance, Sansa. I would not force you into a marriage that you do not want but I would beg you to consider the option. Your Uncle Edmure has agreed to marry a girl of Lord Frey’s choosing to repair the relationship.”

“Without this alliance it will become near impossible to win back the North and retake Winterfell.” Robb tells her, “We cannot hope to reach home before winter sets in.”

It is Robb Stark the King that makes this statement rather than Robb Stark the brother, Sandor realizes. If only he had thought like a king before he made his own damn marriage. 

Sansa laughs softly, and the sound rings bitterly in the air. 

“We?” she challenges Robb, “There is no we. Uncle Edmure will take his bride back to Riverrun to do with as he wishes and you and mother will continue north to Winterfell. I will remain at the Crossing with my lord husband, whomever he may be, to endure. You will retake the North and you will go home and I will remain behind, forgotten and lost to you, to be beaten or disposed of as my husband wishes. That will be my fate.” She shakes her head, tears threatening as her bravery fails. “You may win back an alliance by marrying me to one of them but you will also lose a sister that day.” She stands up and pushes her chair away.

Her mother and brother stare at her, shocked. Gone is their sweet Sansa, their willing Sansa, who knew her duty and would have made the sacrifice for a brother’s love. That girl is dead and buried, Sandor realises, killed a thousand times over and partially by his own hand. 

“You’re a bloody fool if you think marrying her to a Frey is going to win you the North,” Sandor rasps, unable to contain himself. He steps forward until he is only one pace behind her, close enough to reach out and touch.

“You forget yourself,” Robb bites out, also standing now. “You may be my sister’s sworn shield but you are in my service and here at my mercy and you would do well to remember that.”

“That’s as may be,” Sandor agrees, “But I would give you a word of advice if you’re not too damned proud to take it.”

“You go too far!” It is Catelyn Stark’s turn to be outraged now, though she remains in her chair. “You are addressing your king.”

“Aye, and a better king than my last one I hope, which is why I’m telling you this. You’ve insulted the Freys. If you’d married one of theirs then your heir would be of Frey blood. Your sister is your heir now. If you give her to the Freys then they’ll kill you, get a babe on her and see one of their own as King of the North to spite you.”

There is a dawn of understanding in her kingly brother’s eyes, and a sudden fear in his mother’s and Sandor knows that they will think upon it. He hopes that they’ll see some sense and he won’t have to flee with her after all. He’s just started to get comfortable here. 

The little bird turns abruptly from her family and he opens the door for her, following behind. There are tears in her eyes but she does not speak as they walk first out of the castle, then past the picket lines and into the nearby forest. It is not much privacy but it is as much as she will get in a war camp without confining herself to her room. 

They have not walked too far into the trees when she finds a fallen log and sits upon it, beginning to cry in earnest. As she sobs Sandor stands by awkwardly, unsure if his presence is unwelcome but unwilling to leave her without protection. She is a pitiful little thing while crying, a tiny little bird that has tumbled out of its nest. 

Finally he sits beside her and places a large hand on her back where she sits slumped over, her head in her hands. “Don’t cry, girl.” he tells her, “They’ll likely change their minds about it and even if they don’t, I’ll not let them marry you off unwillingly. I’ll take you away from here first.”

Her crying lessens and she looks up at him, reddened eyes fixed upon his face as if searching for something. “You really would, wouldn’t you?” she asks finally, still gazing upon him intently.

“Aye little bird, I would.” He tells her solemnly. “I didn’t take you away from King’s Landing to see you thrust into a second hell. We’d have to go somewhere far, perhaps across the Narrow Sea, but I’d see you to safety.”

“I wish…” she starts to say and then stops herself, shaking her head. She takes a moment to calm herself and he waits as she wipes her eyes, pushes her hair back into place. “I thought that things would be different once I returned to my family.” She finally says. “When I was in King’s Landing I used to dream of it, of being with them again. I thought that if I could only reach them then everything would be better.”

She pauses and smoothes out her skirts and Sandor wonders why she’s telling him this, whether it is only because she has nobody else to confide in.

“But nothing is how I thought it would be,” Sansa continues sorrowfully, “My younger brothers are dead, Arya is lost to us. Mother is so full of grief and so focused on helping Robb to win and Robb… he is a king now, and he thinks like one.”

“And you, little bird, you’ve changed as well.” He tells her quietly, thinking of the girl she used to be. 

“Yes,” she agrees, “I have. I want more, I want… I thought that I could escape my fate, that I could have a usefulness, thought that I could be more… mean more…” she shakes her head sadly, “I see the truth of it now though, my only value is in my birth and my claim and that is all that I will ever be wanted for. Even my family sees me for the value my marriage would bring.”

“Any man who wants you only for your claim is an idiot and blind besides,” he rasps, and she looks up at him sharply. “The world is full of fools, but don’t let them make you into something you’re not. You are more.”

There is an emotion in her eyes that he’s not certain he recognizes and she is looking at him as if she has come to a sudden understanding. He thinks that he should stand up now, suggest that they head back before he does something that will get his head chopped off his shoulders. He moves to do so but she reaches out to touch his arm, stopping him.

“Why did you rescue me from King’s Landing?” she asks him, her eyes not leaving his. He knows that this time she will accept nothing less than some form of the truth.

“Because I wanted to,” he finally tells her, hoping she’ll be willing to leave it at that if he gives her enough. “Because I would keep you safe. Kill anyone who tried to harm you.”

He moves to stand up but she grips his arm even tighter, still focused upon his face.   
“And why did you agree to stay?” she asks, and he thinks that he could lie, tell her it was for her brother’s protection or because he had nowhere else to go but he can’t, he feels it in his gut that this is an important turning point. 

“Seven hells, girl.” He curses, but she refuses to let go of him, her hand tightening its grip on his arm. He gives in, damns himself and wonders if she’ll send him away after this. 

“Because you wanted me to.” He replies finally, grinding out the words. “Because I’d do damn near anything you asked of me if you’d give me just one pretty smile in return.” 

There are tears in her eyes again now and he turns his face away from her. He’s put it out there, exposed himself, and he does not want to have to see her rejection. She might trust him, she might show kindness to him, but he is still just a scarred, broken old dog while she is… she is more than she knows. 

He feels her hand drop from his arm and knows that the moment has come. If he’s lucky then she’ll flee in horror without a word, perhaps now willing to marry a Frey just to get away from him. 

But there is a different movement instead, as she reaches out one small hand and places it on his burned cheek, turning him gently back to face her. She keeps her hand there, never flinching from the feel of the scarred flesh under her fingers. There are still tears in her eyes but as he looks at her he sees her lips move and she gives him a gentle tremulous smile, stroking her fingers down his cheek lightly. 

For just a moment he allows himself to lower his head to rest upon her shoulder, presses his face against her neck and breathes her in. 

He thinks that he might like to burst into tears himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They do not speak about it.

They do not speak about it. 

Sansa wishes that they might, to her it seems almost as though it might have been a dream, a young girl’s feverish imaginings. 

Robb has sent the Freys a refusal in reply to their request for Sansa’s hand, and she cannot help but be relieved even though she knows what it has cost him. It has bought her some time, a year or two if she is lucky, before she must marry. 

As soon as her brother had revealed the news she had felt as if a death sentence had been overturned. Beside her she could feel Sandor’s posture noticeably relax, he had been waiting on edge for the decision, preparing himself for the possibility that he must once again steal her away.

She knows that he would’ve, knows that he would do anything for her if she were only to ask it. She wishes desperately that they might talk about it though, that she might make confessions of her own.

Sansa has noticed that ever since that day in the woods he is very careful never to be alone with her, that he no longer lingers to watch her as he once did. 

She knows the wisdom of his actions, knows the futility of ever hoping for anything more between them if she hopes to remain with her family but a part of her, a foolish part, cannot help but wish for more. She wonders when this change happened, not in King’s Landing, no. She was too foolish then, too blinded by her own naivety. She had seen his kindness but could not recognize it for what it was, disguised as it was with harsh words and scowls. Perhaps it was on the road North as he had taught her patiently, as he had comforted her after he told her of her brothers’ deaths. Perhaps it was here at Riverrun, as she has slowly chipped away at his armour to finally be able to see the man beneath. 

Hesitating and short as they were, his words were no less than a declaration and she cannot help but feel a sense of wonder, that she might inspire such feelings from him. She has felt so unworthy, so stupid and useless and helpless since her father died, and a part of her had never expected to be truly loved. At first she had believed that she would be forced to marry Joffrey, a fate that does not bare thinking about even now. After escaping King’s Landing she has done her best not to think about love or marriage at all, shutting it away in the deepest corners of her mind. 

Over and over again she has refused to think about what she now knows has been gradually building up, until it could no longer be denied.

She has denied what she has felt for so long that now it is difficult to hold it back, like a dam threatening to burst. Knowing undeniably now that he wants her, she feels feverish at the thought of him, her stomach alternatively churning and in knots and an almost ache low in her belly and between her legs. It scares her as much as it confuses her, she never wanted this to happen, never looked for it. Cannot possibly want anything or anyone else now that it has.

She longs for him, even when he stands by her side. Longs for a kind word, an almost smile, a slight touch, any sign of affection or approval. She is a silly little girl, an idiot, stupid, but she longs for him all the same. 

Instead he is silent and taciturn, now never speaking to her more than is needed. She feels his eyes on her back as he stands guard behind her and wonders if he suffers as she does. 

She almost wishes that he would mock her or insult her as he used to, that he would tell her the harsh truth of what can never be. He does not, naive though she may be, he knows that she understands those truths already. She is not so much older now but she feels as if she has aged decades in the time since her father’s death. Her eyes have been long since opened to the ugliness of the world and the cruelties of men. 

Sansa wonders if this is love. It is nothing like in the songs, nothing like she has ever felt before. She has fancied herself in love more than once, with Joffrey and Loras Tyrell and other gallant knights and yet those imaginings never approached this depth of feeling or longing. She has never truly been in love before, she knows that now. Anything she thought she had felt then had only been a dream, a young girl’s fantasy. She had believed that what she wanted was a knight, gentle and gallant with courtly manners, a man who would wait upon her and hasten to fulfill her every need. She knows now that that type of man is useless, good only for songs and poems. 

What she wants now is a man who will tell her when she is wrong, who will force her to recognize the world for what it is. What she wants is a man who will encourage her to grow and become strong rather than sheltering her in ignorance. What she wants is strength and passion and a reply to a longing rooted so deeply in her that she cannot rid herself of it. 

This could not be anything other than love, she feels it so deeply. She knows him, knows him better than perhaps anybody else does, is able to see the man that he has hidden beneath a mask of violence and scorn. Sometimes she thinks that he is the only one who truly knows who she is now, who understands the person that she has become, the person that she is becoming. She is sure of him, more sure than she is of anything or anyone else. 

Before she had only ever dreamed of chaste kisses and favours and chivalry, now she wonders what it would feel like to have his lips firmly pressed to hers, to be kissed soundly as she has seen her brother do to his wife. To have Sandor’s hands upon her body, warm and rough, calloused palms against her smooth skin. She thinks of him shirtless in the infirmary, the feel of his skin under her hand, the scars that had crisscrossed his body. She thinks of him as he had been in the wood, vulnerable as he had pressed his face to her neck for one long moment, his hand briefly on her hip, a scarred cheek under her hand. She does not know enough to truly know what it is that she longs for, she is innocent in that regard. 

She is an idiot, the worst kind of fool, but now that she has discovered this feeling she cannot overcome it, as hard as she tries to stifle it somewhere deep inside it will not go away. 

It could mean his life if anybody were to suspect, his exile at the very least. She longs for him but she knows that she can never act upon it, for to do so would mean that she must be parted from either him or her family. She has only so very recently regained her family… she cannot do that to her mother, who has lost too much already. Yet she cannot lose him, she cannot and inevitably when she must choose…

Her brother has chosen to reject the Frey’s request for her and for now at least she is safe at the cost of a much needed alliance. 

One day, Sansa knows, another marriage proposal will come for her, one that her brother will not refuse.

She prays that that day when she must make her choice will not come for some years yet. 

She prays that she will have the strength to make the choice she wishes to when it does.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few spoilers for the third book in case anyone reading this has only seen the series but really nothing too substantial!

With the alliance with the Freys dissolved and the crossing at the Twins now lost, they are instead to press east towards the Saltpans to make the journey north via the Kingsroad. There are greater risks to this path but with the majority of Lord Tywin’s forces now in King’s Landing they have the best chance they can hope for.

Plans are put into place and the camp prepares to move. Robb’s bannermen all agree that regaining the North must take precedence over their fight with the Lannisters. They must retreat and establish a position of strength from which they can challenge their foes. Uncle Edmure and his bannermen will remain in the Riverlands to hold their position and defend against any Lannisters who seek to follow them north.

Preparations are in full swing and it is three days before they are due to leave Riverrun when they receive news of Arya.

She is offered to them for ransom by a motley band of outlaws led by Beric Dondarrion and the moment that Sansa hears the news she wants to cry and laugh and dance and demand that her sister be returned this very instant.

Her mother has pressed both hands to her mouth and is muttering a quiet prayer, even Robb is clearly overset, though he steels his expression to one of neutrality. Talisa reaches out to grasp his hand from where she sits next to him, offering him comfort as he speaks.

“How do we know that it is really my sister that you’re offering for ransom?” he asks the messengers that stand before them, “I will need to see her for myself to confirm it, before you receive the money.”

“You’re welcome to send one as can confirm that it’s her,” a man who wears a yellow coloured cloak replies nonchalantly, “But we’ll not be bringing her close to the camp in case you choose to free her yourself and forgo the ransom.” 

Robb is visibly offended at the man’s presumption but Sansa cannot stand to wait any longer. It is her little sister they are talking about, Arya, with whom she had parted on such bad terms. How she’s wished that she could undo all that she had said to her sister, how she’s wished to be able to show Arya that she’s changed. She will be a better older sister from now on if only given the chance, she will make up for all her mistakes. She has outgrown childish rivalries and jealousy, she knows now that wolves must stick together as a pack if they hope to survive the winter.

“I will go with them to confirm that it is Arya and hand over the ransom.” She speaks up before Robb can formulate a reply.

“No,” her mother says, renewed fear in her eyes, and Robb is shaking his head as well.

“I can’t risk you, Sansa.” He tells her, “I’ll go myself.”

“And we can’t risk you, Your Grace.” Sansa tells her brother pointedly. “Nor my Lady Mother. I am not as valuable as either of you. I am also the only one here who has seen Arya in more than two years. I will go with my sworn shield and such men as you choose. We will be safe, if Ser Beric is the commander of these men then I do not doubt his honour.”

She remembers Ser Beric Dondarrion from the Hand’s Tourney. He had once been a favourite of hers, in what now seems like a lifetime ago. Surely he could not have changed so much as to try harm her for the sake of ransom money.

“Once I wouldn’t have either, before he started ransoming highborn girls for money.” Robb comments darkly, his eyes upon the messengers.

The man in the yellow coloured cloak shrugs, “It’s got to fall on somebody’s shoulders to look after the smallfolk when you Lords go tearing apart the countryside. Your money’s going to a good cause, the Brotherhood without Banners will see to it.”

It is Sandor who speaks up then from his place by Sansa’s side. “I’ll see both girls home safely, Your Grace.” He states simply, “If there’s anything amiss then they’ll soon be known as the Brotherhood without Balls.” He fixes a scowling gaze upon the messenger who looks slightly less confident than he had a moment ago. 

Robb thinks on it for a moment before nodding. Sansa has noticed that he has developed a grudging respect for Sandor, more so since her sworn shield spoke up against his decision in the matter of the Freys. Her brother is a fair ruler and he values men who are not afraid to tell him the truth, even if it goes against his own opinion.

“I will send you and Lady Sansa along with five knights,” Robb tells Sandor, “If it really is Arya then pay the ransom immediately and bring her back to us quickly.” He turns back to the messengers then. “I am trusting in your honour and the honour of Ser Beric, however if there is any trickery in this then I will not hesitate to hunt down and wipe out every member of this Brotherhood of yours.” He warns them.

We will bring you back, little sister, Sansa thinks, and then we will all go home together.

Briefly she feels Sandor’s hand brush against the small of her back, a reassurance that he will do whatever is necessary to rescue her sister and see them home safely once more. 

**

Arya is being held a little over half an hour’s ride away and the man in the yellow cloak rides ahead to see that everything is prepared for the swap.

Their party rides with the remaining Brotherhood messenger who guides them towards the location. Sansa stays silent, she is too wrapped up in her own thoughts and slightly afraid that this might not be her sister after all, that it will all be for naught. 

“Don’t worry, little bird.” Sandor’s voice is lowered for only her to hear, conscious of the others around them. “I doubt they’re fool enough to try and trick your brother. I’ll wager we’ll have your sister back with us within the hour.”

She gives him a nod and a quick smile, unable to say more but reassured by his words. His presence is a comfort for her, she knows that he will not allow anything to happen to her, that he would save Arya for her sake alone. She’s relieved that Robb has allowed her to go to identify Arya, she would have gone crazy if she had to sit at Riverrun and simply wait.

As soon as they arrive in the clearing where the exchange is to take place Sansa’s eyes search for her sister, roaming across the ten people gathered before finally finding her. The one girl in the clearing is only slightly taller than she remembers, with hair cut short and ragged and tattered clothes but she is, without a doubt, her little sister.

With a cry of delight Sansa dismounts and rushes forward before Sandor or any of her brother’s men can stop her. She throws her arms around her sister and hugs her tightly, tears spilling from her eyes.

“Sansa?” Arya asks, almost in disbelief, “You’re here?”

Sansa pulls back to look her little sister in the face, “I’m here,” she tells her through the tears, “And so very happy to see you. I was so scared that I would never see you again, that something had happened to you.”

“But how did you get away from King’s Landing?” Arya asks her, “I saw you at the sept when they killed father. I thought you were still their captive.” 

Sansa hugs her sister tighter, while Arya hugs her back somewhat awkwardly, still attempting to work out exactly how everything has occurred. “I was until very recently,” Sansa replies, “But that’s a long story and can wait until we have you safely back to Riverrun.”

“We’re satisfied that it’s the girl, take your ransom and we’ll leave you.” Sandor rasps from behind them, holding out the bag of coins.

Arya lets go of her sister abruptly as soon as she sees Sandor. “What’s he doing here?” she demands, before turning back to Sansa. “Are you really taking me back to King’s Landing? Were they lying when they said they would send me to Mother and Robb?” She turns to glare at the assembled men behind them. 

“No Arya, Sandor Clegane serves Robb now.” Sansa tells her, “He rescued me from King’s Landing.”

“I won’t go with him!” Arya protests, “This is a trick! He’s a murderer, He killed Mycah and I demand justice!”

“I’m sorry for Mycah, whoever he was, but you’ll go with me brat, or you’ll be tied to the back of the horse we brought for you.” Sandor replies, his voice hard. “I’ve killed a lot of people in this life and the sooner you learn there’s no such bloody thing as justice the better.” He turns to ready the horses and the small band of outlaws prepares to leave.

“He’s a monster. He doesn’t even remember who Mycah is!” Arya exclaims, “I promised myself that I’d kill him for what he did, along with all the others.”

There is a fire burning in Arya’s eyes and Sansa wonders what has happened to her sister while they have been apart. What has Arya seen and what has she done, and how on earth can Sansa ever hope to make her understand?

“Please Arya, it’s now how you think it is. I swear I’ll explain everything.” Sansa whispers, “I swear by the old gods and the new that he serves Robb now, we’re safe with him. Just let us take you home safely now, Mother and Robb can’t wait to see you with their own eyes, we need to go back to them as quickly as possible.”

Her sister nods once, a look of stubborn loathing still on her face. The rest of the outlaws have already ridden off but one lingers, a tall, strong looking young man with shaggy black hair and blue eyes. He waits until Arya turns to look at him.

“Goodbye Arya,” he tells her, and Sansa can’t help but notice the look of hurt on her sister’s face.

“You’re an idiot.” She tells the boy, “Go off and be a knight in your stupid brotherhood for all I care. You could’ve come with me and served my brother instead.”

The boy scowls, “And then tug my forelock and say ‘M’lady’ every time you walked by?” he asks with scorn, “You go back to being a highborn, you’ll forget me soon enough.”

“Yes, I will forget you.” Arya replies angrily, “I don’t remember stupid people. I’m not a lady and I’ve told you that a hundred times but you’ll just think whatever you want. Don’t think that I’ll miss you because I won’t.”

The boy’s eyes soften slightly as he looks at her, perhaps seeing past her protestations. “Maybe I’ll see you again one day.” He finally says.

“Maybe,” Arya agrees, as if it’s a concession. The boy looks like he might want to say more, but he just nods, climbs onto his horse and finally leaves.

“Who was that?” Sansa asks her little sister, one hand on her shoulder as they walk to the horses, where Sandor is waiting. 

“That was Gendry,” Arya replies, “He was part of my pack for awhile. He used to be a blacksmith, now he’s gone off to be a stupid knight with the brotherhood. He can’t even hold a sword properly.”

Sansa thinks she hears Sandor mutter something about bastards beneath his breath but she can’t quite hear him.

**

The journey is uneventful apart from Arya glaring daggers at Sandor whenever he comes into her line of vision. 

Sansa asks Arya to tell her how she escaped from King’s Landing and her sister does so, pausing at times as if to think, giving Sansa the impression that Arya is leaving things out. She can understand that, she has enough secrets of her own to hide now, memories that she doesn’t wish to speak of. 

“They told me that Bran and Rickon are dead, that Theon Greyjoy killed them.” Arya says when her story is finished, looking at Sansa questioningly as if hoping that somehow the information was wrong.

“It’s true,” Sansa confirms. “I was so scared that you might be dead as well.”

“I’ll kill Theon if I ever see him,” Arya promises angrily, “I lost Needle, but I’ll get a new sword and I’ll kill him.”

“Needle?” Sansa asks her.

“The sword that Jon had made for me before we left,” Arya tells her, “I never showed you. I thought you’d tell on me and make them take it away from me if I did.”

Sansa gives a bitter laugh, “I probably would have.” She admits. She turns in her saddle to face Arya more directly. “I’m sorry Arya, sorry for what an idiot I was. I’m sorry for lying and for supporting Joffrey after Nymeria bit him. I’m sorry for how I treated you. I blamed you for Lady’s death at that time but it was never your fault. If I hadn’t been so stupid…”

Arya is looking at her strangely, as if not quite able to believe what she’s hearing. “You’ve changed, Sansa.” She finally says.

“I think we all have.” Sansa agrees, a wry smile on her face. “Too much has happened for us not to have.”

“I still don’t understand why The Hound is with you,” Arya protests, “How can you trust him? After everything he’s done, after what he did to Mycah. He deserves to be punished, he deserves to die.” 

Sansa looks around to see where Sandor is, but he’s riding at the front of their procession and they’re far enough away that he can’t hear them.

“You’re wrong, Arya.” She tells her sister, “You’ve been right about a lot of things but you’re wrong about that. Mycah’s death was not truly Sandor Clegane’s fault, if he hadn’t killed him then someone else would’ve. Joffrey deserves to be punished and Joffrey deserves to die.” She thinks about the boy king, has to suppress a shudder at the thought of his viciousness, those plump lips curled into a sneer. She hopes that she can find the words to make Arya understand. “Whatever Sandor did while he served the Lannisters, he did because he was ordered to. A soldier cannot refuse their orders or they will lose their position, perhaps even their head. It was Joffrey’s fault that your friend died, and it was partly mine as well. I should’ve had the courage to tell the truth.” 

Sansa watches Sandor for a moment and as if feeling her gaze on his back he turns around briefly and meets her eyes before he returns his attention to the road. 

Arya still appears doubtful and there is so much anger in her that Sansa sighs, wondering how to convince her.

“We are all what life makes of us. Sometimes we have to do things that we don’t want to do in order to survive.” She sees Arya’s expression change at that, a spark of recognition in her eyes. “What has happened to The Hound in life has made him what he is, the world saw him as a monster and so it made him into one.” Arya is looking strangely at her now, perhaps wondering at the depth of emotion in Sansa’s tone, but she is listening nonetheless. “He never had a choice in most of the things he did, but when he received one he made it, he made a choice to save me and leave the Lannisters. I’ve learned the hard way that people aren’t always as they appear.” 

Sansa has learned that lesson well and she can’t help but wonder what lessons Arya has learned while away from them. “The people that you rely on will often let you down, those who appear to be good will hurt you. Never judge people on appearances alone. We all do what we have to in order to survive, it’s what we do when we have a choice that makes the difference between good men and bad.”

Arya is silent for the rest of the trip back to Riverrun, Sansa watches her as she bites her lip and appears to contemplate. Arya still shoots looks at Sandor that contain a fair amount of antagonism but the abject hate that she had directed at him before seems to have abated for now at least.

They arrive back and there is laughter and happy tears as her mother and brother embrace Arya, Lady Catelyn exclaiming over how she’s grown and Robb teasing her about her hair. There is grief in their joy as they remember those who are no longer with them but for now they are back together again and it is enough.

Arya is dispatched for a bath and dressed in fresh clothes, girl’s clothes which she protests heartily, but her mother will not be swayed. They eat privately as a family and Arya meets Robb’s wife, whom she seems to be not quite sure what to make of. 

“Be glad that Robb married her, or else you’d still be betrothed to a Frey,” Sansa whispers to her sister, and Arya gives her a look of horror.

Their mother cannot seem to believe that Arya has actually returned, Lady Catelyn reaches out to touch her at every opportunity, cannot keep her eyes from her. Sansa knows that her mother must be thinking of her two youngest sons, wondering why the miracle could not be further extended to them.

It is late at night when they finally retire and Sansa leads Arya to their shared bedchamber. Sandor accompanies them to the doorway, always a few steps behind, and Sansa ushers her yawning younger sister into the room and shuts the door before turning to face him.

“Thank you for helping me to bring my sister back,” she whispers. 

“Aye, for all the love the brat bears me.” Sandor mutters, “I thought she was like to try and stab me in the back earlier today.”

“She’ll come to understand in time,” Sansa replies, hoping that the process has already begun. “She blames you…”

“As well she might,” he grunts, his gaze hard and boring into her “I know you believe I’m one of your bleeding true knights, little bird, but I’m not. I’m a killer. I killed that boy, killed many people for the Lannisters whenever they wished it. Now I’ll kill for your brother whenever he asks it of me. That’s who I am girl, and that’s who I’ll always be. I’ll kill and I’ll not ask who or why. I won’t care either.” He looks at her with a hint of scorn in his gaze, wanting to force her to accept an unpleasant truth about him.

Sansa knows that he is challenging her, that perhaps he is hoping to turn her away from him. She will not be swayed so easily, not now. She has come to recognize these truths a long time ago, he seems to have forgotten that he was the one to force her to. She has not gone into this with her eyes closed.

“You told me that the world is full of killers,” Sansa whispers, reaching out hesitantly to touch her fingers to his, glancing furtively past him to check that nobody else is in the corridor. “I know that you are a killer, but I also know that that is not all that you are. You are much more than that, and I will not allow you to say otherwise.”

He gives a bitter laugh at that, “You may not allow it all you wish, but the world recognizes me for the monster I am.” He turns his face from her as he moves to leave but Sansa grasps his wrist to stop him, her hand too small to even encircle it entirely. He could tear his hand easily away from her grip if he wished to. She presses her fingers hard upon his wrist until she can feel his pulse beating steadily.

“The world can believe whatever it wants.” She tells him, “Perhaps you are not a knight or a hero out of some song but you are no monster either. There is goodness in you, and I believe that more strongly than anything else. If you had ever been given a choice before, or had something true to fight for then you would have… It was you who protected me, you who saved me. It is you who I…” She falters, unable to say it, uncertain of even what she might have said. 

There is a softer light in his eyes as he looks at her now, the previous self-hatred she had seen in them tempered by her words. 

“Foolish little bird,” he tells her, a sadness in his tone “You chirp at that song long enough and you might make me want to believe it myself.”

He bends down and very gently kisses the top of her head, allowing his lips to linger only for a moment before he leaves her so quickly that she does not have time to react.

Resisting the urge to raise a hand to touch the spot, she enters the room. Arya is huddled under the furs and Sansa wonders if she is already asleep. She changes into her nightgown and climbs in under the covers, blowing out the remaining candle.

It is a moment before she hears Arya speak, not asleep after all. “I killed a boy in King’s Landing when I was escaping.” Arya whispers to her, “I’ve killed others since then, some myself and some because I asked for them to die. I never wanted to… but the boy at King’s Landing was going to give me to the Queen and the others, they were horrible men… and it became easier every time.” Arya trails off and Sansa reaches over and clutches her sister’s hand tightly, her mind reeling from Arya’s confession. Her little sister, forced to kill in order to survive. Sandor had told her that the world was full of killers, and now it has made Arya into one as well.

“I was worried that Mother wouldn’t want me back if she knew,” Arya whispers, “I never wanted to… I was worried that she wouldn’t love me anymore because of it. You won’t tell her will you? Not Robb either? You don’t hate me do you?”

“I won’t tell her,” Sansa promises, even though she knows that their mother would not love Arya any less. These secrets are Arya’s to tell or keep as she chooses. “And I could never hate you. None of it is your fault,” she tells her sister, moving to hug her. “You did what you had to do in order to survive. You didn’t have a choice.” 

She thinks that perhaps her sister understands better than anyone else about things that must be done to stay alive, about the way that life changes people.

“I didn’t think you would understand,” Arya whispers, “I thought you would hate me.”

“I could never hate you for the things you’ve had to do. Even I have my own secrets,” Sansa whispers back, “Even I’ve had to do things and endure things in order to stay alive.” For the next hour the story pours out of her, of everything that happened in King’s Landing after their father’s death. Of how Sansa learned to create a mask of courtesy and lie through her teeth about her loyalty even as they beat her and stripped her bare. Of how she called her own family members traitors and swore that she was obedient and loving to the monster who had her father killed. She tells Arya of how she recognised the royal court for the liars they were one by one, of how Sandor had helped her, even though she had feared him at the time, of how he taught her to beware of the true ugliness in the world, to recognize the killers. Of how he tried to protect her in whatever way he could and saved her in the end, brought her back to her family.

“We’ll be alright.” Sansa whispers to her sister. “We’re together now.”

“We’re a pack again,” Arya whispers back sleepily, “We’ll look after each other. I won’t try to kill the Hound either since he looked after you.”

They hold each other for a long time in silence until Arya drifts off to sleep. Sansa feels as if she has won an important victory. She has her sister back and has begun to mend the bonds between them. She does not want a wedge driven between them due to her choice of protector. She cannot let him go but she so desperately wants to be the sister that she should have been. 

She cannot tell Arya more than that, cannot admit to her the entire truth of the matter, of how she feels for the man whom her little sister has hated so bitterly until now. 

Some secrets must remain.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Since this is (mostly at least) TV canon, I’m going by the ages of characters from there. Sansa is 13 when the series begins, and judging by the passage of time from the books where she’s 13 by book 3, she should be turning 15 somewhere around this time.

Chapter 10

 

Sansa’s fifteenth name day is spent on the road, perched on her horse as the rain falls upon them. She is tired and sodden, weary from five days spent on the march and looking forward only to the end of the day when the tent she shares with Arya can be raised and they are able to rest. 

They ride at the back of the battle host just in front of the baggage train, where it is judged that they will be safest. Lady Catelyn rides ahead in the next section along with Talisa, closer to Robb to give advice if he should need it.

Sansa rides with Arya to her left side and Sandor to her right, a further five knights nearby tasked with protecting them should battle occur and her sworn shield be called away to fight. There exists a slightly uneasy peace between her sister and Sandor, with only the occasional insult traded as they mainly ignore each other. 

“Do you remember my last nameday at Winterfell?” Sansa asks Arya as their horses trudge along through the muck stirred up by the rest of the host. “I was so excited… mother had given me a new dress and there were lemoncakes at the feast. I felt so grown up at the time, as if I was almost a woman.” She smiles sadly at the memory, of her excitement at turning 13 and receiving a grown up dress, of the sour tang of the lemoncakes on her tongue. It had been her last nameday at home… the last that her father, Bran and Rickon would ever be present for. 

“I remember,” Arya replies, “Septa Mordane told me that I shouldn’t eat my lemoncakes so fast and that I should try to be more of a lady like you.”

Sansa laughs at that and Sandor gives a snort from where he rides on the other side of her. 

“A bit of a grim nameday for you this time, little bird.” He comments, “Neither new dresses nor lemoncakes and only us and the rain for company.”

“It is not so very bad,” she comments with a small smile, tugging at the hood of her waterproof cloak to bring it further forward. “I would gladly forgo the rain but I am pleased with my company.”

Sandor only grunts at that while Arya grins and launches into a story of her own last nameday at home, when their father had allowed her to participate in Bran and Rickon’s arms training as a special treat.

From ahead they hear the horn that signals they are about to stop for the midday meal and a short rest. Sandor barks out instructions to the men around them to set up a small tent for the girls’ shelter, seeing that they are about their tasks before he moves to help Sansa dismount. He reaches for her and she places both of her hands softly on his shoulders for balance as he places his large hands around her waist to help her down, warm even through the cloth of her dress. 

Instead of dismounting, Arya announces that she’s going to check on their mother and Talisa and trots off on her horse. She has never been good at patience and Sansa knows that the slow pace of the host has been sorely trying on her, leaving her eager for any change or action. Watching her go, Sandor directs two of the knights to follow Arya in order to keep her safe. 

One of the smaller tents is soon erected and two chairs and a small table placed inside for Sansa and Arya’s use. A member of her brother’s retinue brings food and utensils and Sansa gratefully strips off her sodden cloak before collapsing into one of the chairs.

“You might as well sit and eat with me,” she tells Sandor, when he walks in with one saddlebag over his shoulder. “Arya will most likely stay with Mother and Talisa for her meal. Robb is likely to eat with them and she will wish to hear what he has to say about our progress and any upcoming battles he expects.”

Sandor grunts in assent and moves to sit in the remaining chair, watching her as she prepares two plates from the bread and cheese and dried meat that has been given for their midday meal. Robb wishes to travel quickly and therefore there is fresh food only for the evening meal in order to make the best time. 

There is no privacy to speak of on the road north and this is the first time since they have left Riverrun that they have been alone. As she places food on a plate to give to Sandor she watches him from under lowered eyelids, observing the way that he allows his eyes to rake over her when he thinks she isn’t aware of it. Warmth spreads through her, driving away the chill of the road. 

She passes him the plate and he nods his thanks, watching her eat her own food daintily for a moment before he begins on his own meal, far less concerned about delicacy and more about finishing quickly. When he’s done he wipes his hands upon his breaches before turning to watch her finish her own meal, a ghost of a smile upon his lips. She blushes lightly, self conscious under his attention and glad that Arya’s restlessness has given them this moment alone.

“Not much of a nameday at all,” he comments as she dabs at her lips with a handkerchief before sitting back in her chair. 

“I am content enough,” she assures him, “I have Mother and Robb and Arya back with me and you… You are with me also.”

Her heart beats faster as she says the last part, she is still so unsure of herself around him, unable to express her feelings adequately and nervous of his reaction. She could not bear it if he was to reject her overture. 

“Aye, I’m here with you.” He agrees, something flickering across his face as he says it. “I wouldn’t want your nameday to pass without you receiving any gifts though.”

He reaches into the saddlebag he’s brought in with him and Sansa realizes that he intends to present her with something. She can’t help but feel touched by his thoughtfulness, though she is confused by what he would think to give her. 

He brings out an oilcloth wrapped package and passes it to her, watching as Sansa carefully unwraps it.

“It’s not what a little bird like you would wish for in a gift,” he says gruffly as she looks down at the items now lying in her lap. “But we’re most likely headed to battle and I’ll see you have some protection even if I’m not by your side.”

She had returned the dagger he lent her on the road once they reached Riverrun, thinking that surrounded by her brother’s bannermen she would have no more need of it. In her lap on top of the oilcloth lies two small leather sheaths with buckles attached, one with a slightly longer belt than the other, a pair of matching daggers inside them. Sansa admires them for a moment, taking in the simple yet elegant design of the leather, and pulling out one dagger. She tests its balance, finding the blade light in comparison to the one he had lent her previously. Even with little knowledge of weapons she can tell that the craftsmanship is excellent.

“Thank you,” she stutters, “I…”

“Not what you were expecting I’m sure,” he cuts her off, “But if I’m called away from you to fight I’d feel easier knowing you’re able to protect yourself in some way. The first dagger fastens around your left wrist so that you might pull it out easily with your right. The second dagger you should fasten on your leg above your boot, so you have a weapon concealed if that one’s taken from you.”

“But where did you get them from?” she asks him as she turns the dagger over in her hands, still admiring it.

“Had them made in Riverrun while we were there,” he replies with a shrug, “Heard it was your nameday soon and thought I might as well wait to give them.”

“This is…” she pauses, wanting desperately to say the right thing, to let him know how much this means to her. Even when it comes to giving gifts her safety is always foremost in her mind. “They’re beautiful,” she finally says. “I can’t thank you enough for your thoughtfulness. I’ll ensure that I wear them every day.”

He grunts in reply, but looks oddly pleased. “Here girl, let me show you how to put the wrist sheath on.” He tells her, and leans forward to buckle it around her left forearm, checking the straps to see that it is tight enough and will not slip. His fingers linger for a moment, brushing the back of her hand. “Now let’s see you try to draw it.”

It takes Sansa a few times before she manages to do so smoothly and he finally nods in approval. 

“Remember what I taught you on the road to Riverrun.” He tells her, a seriousness in his voice. “You’re not a warrior so one of your best chances is to surprise them. Wait until they’re close and then use it on whatever exposed parts you can. Eyes are best or any gap in armour you can find.”

She nods, remembering their lessons upon the road north of King’s Landing, stifling a blush as she recalls his hands upon her as he had demonstrated how to block an attack and defeat an opponent. 

Turning away from him she lifts her skirts slightly to fasten the second sheath around her left leg just above her ankle boot, pausing to admire it for a moment. She turns back to see him regarding her with an intensity that she hasn’t seen for days, his eyes dark as he raises them from her legs to her face. 

For a moment Sansa can do nothing, can think of nothing to say in response to the need that she sees upon his face. She should have known better, should have kept herself proper and distant as he has, even though she has wished for days to test the boundaries and force him out of his self imposed limits. She stands up and he follows suit.

“S..Sandor, I…” she wets her lips unconsciously, her throat suddenly dry, and hears his sharp intake of breath. The sound of his first name on her lips is strange to her. Since she cannot address him as Ser or My Lord she usually refrains from addressing him directly by his name at all, aware of the impropriety of it. 

“Seven hells girl, but you fucking tempt me.” He mutters, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I shouldn’t have…”

“Yes, yes you should have!” Sansa interrupts him, unable to stand by while he makes excuses and distances himself once again. “Your gift meant so much to me and I… I…” she stumbles over her words, blushing all the while. She thinks she must be as red as her hair by now. “I want…” she starts to say but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand.

“You don’t know what you want, little bird.” He tells her, “You’re too young to know it. Fifteen and with your whole life ahead of you and I should fucking well remember it.”

“No,” she tells him passionately, taking another step forward. “No, you can’t tell me that I don’t know what I want, that I’m too young to know. After everything I’ve been through, I know. I know.”

She practically hisses the last part, upset as she is at his dismissal of her feelings. She takes a step forward and reaches for him but he grasps her wrist before she can.

“What do you know?” he asks her harshly, his grip almost crushing her. “What do you think is going to happen if I allow myself to do what I really want to? You think this is a fairy tale or a song, that I’m your true hero and we’ll live happily ever after in the end? You think your lady mother or kingly brother would ever accept a fucking dog like me for you?”

Sansa shakes her head, tears threatening to spill, she does not want a song anymore. 

She knows that all the best songs end in tragedy. 

Seeing her face he sighs, softens visibly. “And there I’ve made you cry on your nameday, like the brute I am.” He whispers, lets go of her and reaches out a hand to wipe away a tear as it spills down her cheek. 

If she could just make him understand, if she could just convince him… Sansa throws herself forward, wraps her arm around his waist and lays her head on his chest. It is uncomfortable with the mail he is wearing but she wants so badly for him to give in, to finally touch her as she’s been wishing for him to for weeks.

For a few moments he allows himself to. He puts his arms around her, keeping them high and still on her back. Sandor strokes one hand through her hair briefly, his fingers gentle, before he pushes her firmly away.

She makes a noise of protest but he steps away from her anyway. “We’re in the middle of an army camp, girl.” He tells her roughly, “If anybody were to walk in then it would mean the death of me. It might be rather an ugly head I have but I would prefer to keep it on my shoulders.”

She feels like a fool then for the danger that she’s placed him in. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I just…”

“Better if you do think,” he tells her seriously. “These are foolish hopes and dreams and you need to face the truth. You’re destined for marriage with some Lord or other. A better man than me, no doubt. I’ll protect you, even follow you to your new home to watch over you if that’s what you wish, but no matter how much I want you that’s all that will ever be.” He moves away from her, walking towards the tent’s entrance “And that’s for the best.”

Sansa finds her voice, “You are a good soldier and my brother already respects you, maybe one day after you’ve helped him to win back the North…”

“Maybe one day he might grant me lands or even make a lord of me, but I’ll still be too low born for the likes of you.” Sandor gives a harsh laugh, “I would have been even before your brother declared himself King of the North. Younger sons from minor houses who are the descendents of kennel masters shouldn’t even presume to look at a Stark of Winterfell.”

“I know that it seems impossible,” Sansa tells him, trying to frame her words carefully. “And I will be careful of my actions from now on but you cannot tell me what I should or should not feel, what I should or should not want. I know my own mind. I know my own heart.”

She hears his intake of breath and sees him turn back to her and look at her intently for one moment. Then the horn to signal preparation for departure sounds and he strides outside without looking back. Sansa puts her coat back on and pulls up the hood, takes a moment to gather her emotions before she walks outside. 

When the time comes to depart he lifts her onto her horse quickly before mounting Stranger. Now his hands do not linger and he is back to avoiding her gaze. 

She waits until the host has started moving again before she reaches out to touch his arm gently. He turns to look at her, a question in his eyes.

“I really am thankful for your gift,” she tells him, “For all of the gifts that you have given me. I am glad you are here with me on my nameday.”

He nods, his face softening slightly. “I’ve to help your brother win his war and see you home safely for the next one.” He tells her.

She smiles at that, and turns back around to face the road. Arya rides up twenty minutes later to join them, chattering about what she’s heard during her meal with Robb. They ride in silence for most of the afternoon and it is only when they halt for the night and the girls’ tent is erected that Arya notices the wrist sheath and dagger once Sansa has removed her coat. Sandor is off duty and has already left them, they are guarded by a rotation of Robb’s bannermen through the nights. 

“Where did you get that from?” Arya asks Sansa, peering at the sheath and dagger intently. Sansa smiles and removes it to show her.

“It was a nameday gift from my sworn shield.” She tells Arya, “So that I might protect myself if we are attacked.”

Arya admires the dagger and its sheath with obvious admiration. “If only I still had Needle then we could fight off any Lannisters or Ironborn together.” She remarks glumly. 

Sansa laughs, “And perhaps at the end of the war they’ll make a song about the Stark sisters and their blades.”

Arya joins her in her laughter and they head to dinner quite merrily. Sansa has stowed her wrist sheath safely in her belongings, neither feeling that it is appropriate for dinner nor wanting to answer the inevitable questions that will follow. She has kept the dagger strapped on her leg in its place. She enjoys the feeling of it against her skin, a secret that only she knows.

The family toasts to her health and while there are no lemoncakes, they have managed a slightly more elaborate dinner than usual. Sansa does not mind the lack of fanfare surrounding her nameday, she is only happy that she is safe here with her family. If she had remained behind in King’s Landing then perhaps they would have used today as an excuse to marry her to Joffrey, she cannot suppress a shudder at the thought.

“I am sorry that your other nameday gift is not ready,” her mother tells Sansa after presenting her with a set of jeweled hairpins that were once hers. “I’ve started sewing a new dress for you but now that we have left Riverrun there is little free time to complete it.”

“That is alright,” Sansa replies with a smile, “There will be few opportunities to wear a new dress until we have retaken Winterfell.”

Robb nods his agreement to this. He’s presented her with a pair of new riding boots and a grey woolen cloak, practical presents that the old Sansa would have been disappointed with. Now she understands the pleasure of a warm cloak and the value of having more than one set of boots to wear when one is still damp. 

“Still, it is a shame that we could not give you a better celebration when we have so recently gotten you back safely.” Catelyn comments.

“She received one more gift from The Hound, at least.” Arya comments blithely, and Sansa bites her lip, wishing that she had been able to mention it casually first.

“Did she now?” Catelyn asks, directing a look of displeased enquiry towards Sansa.

“It’s brilliant!” Arya exclaims enthusiastically, and Robb and Talisa also focus their attention upon Sansa, awaiting her explanation.

“He gave me a dagger with a wrist sheath.” Sansa admits to them, forcing herself to keep her tone casual, as if she had simply forgotten to mention it. 

“I’m not certain if it’s entirely appropriate for him to be giving you gifts.” Catelyn tells her with a frown. “He is unrelated to you and not of the proper rank. He should avoid reaching above his station.”

It is Sansa’s turn to frown, offended by her mother’s words but recalling what Sandor had told her earlier that day. He is right, second sons of upstart minor houses are not given leave to aim for Starks of Winterfell. He is right just as he is always right and she knows now that they will never understand.

She forces herself to make her tone light and scoffs at her mother’s sentiment. The mask which she perfected in King’s Landing is useful here as well. “He has hardly presented me with jewels or clothing or poetry.” She tells her mother, “He has given me the dagger to protect myself with should I be attacked if it comes to battle. It is an appropriate gift from a Sworn Shield.”

She looks towards Robb, knowing his grudging respect for Sandor and hoping that he will back her up. 

Her brother shrugs, “I fail to see the harm in it, Mother. Sansa is right, it is not an inappropriate gift. I would be happy to know that she has a means of protecting herself if her defenders should fail.”

Catelyn purses her lips, clearly unhappy at the outcome of the conversation but Talisa changes the topic, asking them about the places that they will soon be travelling to and talking about her own journeys before she had met Robb.

Pretending to listen, Sansa instead focuses on the pressure of her leg sheath and the dagger within it against her calf, imagines the feeling of a warm calloused hand there instead. 

She will keep her secrets and pray for a day when she does not need to.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Since this includes a few happenings from book canon (though not too many spoilers in there) my apologies if I’ve messed up timelines. I tried desperately to work out what would be happening at the time my story is based and simply ended up confusing myself more due to the divergence.

They have been on the road for more than two weeks when they finally reach Darry Castle. It has only recently been retaken from the Lannisters and Sansa is relieved that there is no need for battle in order to reach it and cross north onto the Kingsroad. It is a relatively small castle, and with the last of the male Darrys killed by the Lannisters’ men in the first siege, it is still in a state of disarray when they arrive.

Sansa does not care about the state of the castle, about how old it is or about any lack of comforts. She is content simply to have a proper roof over her head, to take a proper bath and to sleep in a proper bed, even if she does need to share one with both her mother and Arya.

There are few enough rooms in the castle to accommodate all the Lords that accompany Robb, and it takes some time to finalise all the arrangements even despite the castle’s advanced warning of their arrival.

Sandor is to be housed in the barracks with some of the other higher born knights and he leaves them once he has escorted her, Arya and their mother to their shared room. Robb has come to trust him and Sandor knows that he is expected to ensure that there is some order among the men, now that their wariness of him has begun to turn to a grudging respect.

It is an hour before they are all bathed and dressed again and Sansa notices that Arya’s eyelids are already drooping as they walk downstairs together to eat. Their pace over the past weeks has been relentless and Sansa is glad for some respite at last. After this last stop they will finally turn towards the north and soon enough there will be battles to be fought with the Ironborn. 

Robb is already at the high table along with Talisa and some of his other bannermen, who shift to let the Stark women claim their places. Sansa gives small smiles of thanks and scans the hall, looking for her sworn shield among the men gathered. She finds him sitting with some of the older, higher born knights about halfway down the order of tables. He seems at ease his companions though he does not say much, drinking wine and occasionally make a comment in reply to something. 

Satisfied that he is well looked after, Sansa leans forward to see past her mother and address her brother. “Might we stay here for a few days, Robb?” she asks him, “Not for too long of course, but it would give us all time to recover our strength before we turn to the North.”

“And time for the Lannisters and their allies to plan an attack upon us.” Robb replies grimly, “I’ve heard that your sworn shield’s brother and his companions are raiding in the Saltpans, should they learn of our presence here we can expect trouble. We will stay here for three days, no more.”

Sansa’s heart skips a beat as she hears Robb mention Gregor Clegane. She still remembers the way he had killed the young knight at the Hand’s Tourney, remembers the brutal fury in him as he had attacked first Loras Tyrell, and then Sandor when he had tried to intervene. Most of all she remembers the story of how Sandor received his scars, of his brother’s unimaginable cruelty. 

“Should we not try to stop him?” she asks Robb timidly, “To protect the people?”

Robb shakes his head wearily, “A band as small as theirs could easily evade our host. We would waste weeks looking for them and likely they would escape us to return to King’s Landing. I may leave a small force behind to track them down and dispense justice but we must continue on our way.”

“If you are able to send a force to dispense of Gregor Clegane then the people hereabouts will love you for it.” Catelyn Stark counsels him, having listened in silence to their conversation until that point. “They will remember it when it comes time to choose sides, just as they will remember that The Mountain that Rides and his men were sent by the Lannisters. If you manage to kill Gregor Clegane then it may even bring the Martells of Dorne to your cause.”

A sudden fear grips Sansa as she comes to a realization that her brother is likely to actually pursue this plan. She knows that Sandor hates his brother, that he most likely wishes to kill Gregor himself. If Robb really does send a force to deal with Gregor Clegane then what might Sandor’s part be in it? 

They were evenly matched on the day of the Tourney but she cannot quell her fear of what might happen to Sandor if he is ever able to properly seek his revenge.

“They deserve to die.” Arya announces quietly, with an edge of steel to her voice. “All of them; The Mountain, Polliver, The Tickler, Raff the Sweetling. They all deserve to die.”

Neither Robb nor their mother have heard her and Sansa’s face blanches as she realizes the implications. Arya should not know those names, nor what those men are capable of. There are so many things that Sansa does not yet know about Arya’s time away from them and she realizes that this is one of them. She reaches out and takes her sister’s hand under the table, giving it a quick squeeze.

“I’m sure Robb will ensure that they are brought to justice.” She tells Arya, trying to give her a reassuring smile. 

Arya stares down at her plate, she does not smile back.

Sansa’s eyes once again seek out Sandor where he sits further down the hall. She watches him as he listens intently to something one of the knights near him is saying, sees the muscles on the scarred side of his face twitch and one of his hands form a fist and she knows that he has been told. 

As if he can feel her eyes on him he looks towards the high table and meets her gaze for a moment before she sees it shift to her brother. There is a steely determination there that she has seen only on a few occasions. Whatever decision he has taken he will not be swayed from it. 

Sansa knows that she has already lost him. 

**

Their family is finishing breakfast in the solar which adjoins the Lord’s chambers the next morning when the guard on duty asks permission for Sandor Clegane to be admitted to speak with His Grace. 

Robb gives his assent as if he had expected this to occur and Sansa knows what must happen now. She wishes that she could have spoken to him in private first. She could have begged Sandor, cried and hoped that he would take pity upon her grief, tried to bind him to her with promises or refused to release him from her service. She could have offered him love on the hope that it would be stronger than the thirst for revenge. Perhaps he suspects that she would have tried to sway him from his decision and that is why he did not seek her out first.

Somehow she knows that none of these actions would do the slightest amount of good. She knows that he must do this to ever have any hope of peace but she cannot help but wish that she could find a way to stop him all the same.

He has lived for this moment, for this possibility, for years on end. While he was in the service of the Lannisters there was no way for him to take his revenge upon Gregor without incurring their ire. Gregor Clegane may be a rabid dog, but he is the Lannister’s dog to set upon their enemies and his cruelty suited their purposes perfectly. 

With a new master to serve, Sandor may finally pursue justice. Justice for himself, and for the crimes against a father and sister that she has only ever heard whispered about. Sansa cannot deny him the opportunity for that revenge, the opportunity for justice. It is what has kept him alive all these years when he never hoped for anything else. If she were to ask him not to go then it would inevitably drive a wedge between them that might never be overcome. She would keep him safe and whole but she would lose him by asking this one thing, by asking him to abandon his vengeance. 

Sandor glances at her only briefly as he enters, focusing his attention upon her brother. She schools her expression carefully, determined to at least appear strong for his sake.

Robb sets aside his plate and motions for Sandor to speak.

“I’ve heard that you intend to send a party after my brother, I would like to lead it.” Sandor tells him with no preamble.

Robb nods, unsurprised. “I guessed that you might.” He replies, “If anyone has a chance of defeating The Mountain that Rides then it is you, though I will be loathe to lose you from my service.”

Sandor gives a rasping laugh, “You’re assuming I’ll die. There’s still a possibility I might come back alive.” 

Robb gives a small smile of acknowledgement to the statement. “I can spare you fifteen men.” He tells Sandor, “No mercy should be shown to your brother and his men for their crimes. Should you be successful you are to rejoin us on the road north, you know our route. Be ready to leave by tomorrow morning.”

Sandor gives a terse nod before turning to leave, without a glance in Sansa’s direction. She wonders if he plans to leave her without any proper farewell, to pretend that he was never anything truly more to her than her sworn shield and protector. She could not stand it if he were to do so, she needs to speak with him before he leaves, to properly acknowledge what it is that she feels. She needs a memory to hold on to, should the worst happen.

When she and Arya exit the room a few minutes later she sees that her fears are for naught. He is waiting outside, waiting so that he might speak to her, she knows immediately. It is Arya who steps forward before Sansa can, looking up at the man she had once professed to hate.

“Make sure that you kill Polliver, Raff and The Tickler too.” She tells Sandor seriously, “They deserve to die as much as your brother does.”

“And what do you know of them, girl?” Sandor asks her, and Sansa thinks that she can detect a note of concern in his voice.

“They captured us and brought us to Harrenhall,” Arya tells him, “They were… torturing the villagers for information. Every day they would take one and… They had taken Gendry and they would have…” She cuts herself off abruptly, looks up at him with that fierce anger on her face that Sansa has now grown used to. “Polliver took my sword, Needle. The sword my brother Jon gave me. If you kill him then please bring Needle back to me.”

“Aye, I’ll bring your sword back if I can, brat.” Sandor tells her, a softness around his eyes.

Arya nods, solemn as a girl of thirteen who has seen too much can be, and then leaves with an explanation of checking on her horse. 

Sansa looks up to find Sandor peering down at her, his expression guarded. 

There is so much that she wants to say to him, but this is neither the time nor the place for that.

“You are leaving tomorrow morning?” she asks him instead, trying to keep her features strong when all she really wants is to cry her eyes out.

“Aye, with whatever knights your brother chooses to send with me.”

She nods, looks down and worries at her skirt with her fingers, clenching it between them. “I knew…” she whispers, “I hoped… but I knew what you would do as soon as I heard the news.”

“I thought that you might speak out to try and stop me,” he admits as they begin to walk towards the yard. 

“I might have if I’d seen you alone,” she admits, “But I know that… that you need to do this so that you can… so that…” she is trying to be mature, to be understanding, when really all she wants to do is beg him not to go. 

There are tears threatening to spill from her eyes but she represses them. This might be one of her last opportunities to speak with him before he leaves and she will not waste it. 

“I do need to do this.” He agrees, his eyes fixed upon her. “It’s past time that Gregor paid for his crimes. Let him see for himself exactly what monster he created all those years ago when he shoved my face in the coals.”

“I wish I could stop you!” Sansa blurts out before she can stop herself, “I don’t want you to go, I’m so scared, Sandor, I… I can’t…”

“Hush, little bird.” He tells her, reaching forward to briefly touch her chin. He gives a dark laugh, “I might not die, after all.”

“But you might,” she presses, “You might, and I…”

He cuts her off, “And perhaps that would be for the best if I can manage to take him down with me. I’ll die and you’ll remember me for the best man you ever knew and never have the chance to learn otherwise.”

Sansa shakes her head, still trying to quell the threatening tears. “I do not wish to remember you for the best man I ever knew,” she whispers, “I would much sooner you returned to my side to prove me wrong if it means that you are alive.”

“And then do what?” he gives another harsh laugh. “It might be better for you if I didn’t return. At least by killing Gregor I can do something good for the realm, though they may call me kinslayer for it. Better that I’m to die once and for all and be done with it. Better for you, before I pull you down from your high perch.”

“Don’t push me away before you leave,” she pleads with him, “I’ll pray every day for your safe return. What would be best for me, would be if you were to stay beside me all the days of my life.”

He scoffs, “If you had any buggering sense then you would pray that I die bravely and that your brother finds you a better man than me to look after you. A good man who’s able to make you a wife.”

He looks down at her; tenderness, grief and resolution all mixed together in his gaze. “I would die for you, little bird, but in the end that’s all I’m good for. Sooner or later I might forget all my promises and steal you away from your family.”

“Would that be so bad?” she asks him, her voice almost a whisper. 

“You would come to hate me for it in the end, when we were living in poverty and you could never see your family again.” He tells her, “I’ve never lied to you, little bird. You know I’m right.”

He is not right, he cannot be. How can she possibly know when she will never have the opportunity to find out? She wants to tell him that he’s wrong, to insist that she could never hate him, that she loves him more than life itself, but here in a very public hallway where anybody could happen upon them is neither the time nor the place. 

He is leaving, whether she likes it or not, and there is a very real chance that he might not return. 

“Will you allow me to say farewell to you before you leave?” she asks instead, knowing that he must leave her now to make preparations for his journey.

“And will you offer me another favour to carry as I go to become a bloody kinslayer?” he mocks her gently, “You will only weaken me with your kindness, girl, and I would not muddy your name by doing so.” 

She would be his strength if she only knew how. 

“Do not deny me this,” she tells him, as calmly as she is able. “If you are to go then I would farewell you properly. Meet me in the sept an hour before you leave, at that time of the morning there will be nobody else there.”

He hesitates and she knows that a part of him wishes to refuse but she does not mean to let him.

“Aye, I’ll meet you in the sept before I leave.” He tells her, “I’d see your pretty face one last time before I go to die.”

He touches her hair, smoothes it with one hand and she sees his mouth quirk in an almost smile before he turns and leaves her. 

Everything has happened so fast that Sansa has had no time to process it properly or decide how it is that she truly feels. All she knows is that her stomach is twisted with dread and fear, and that she needs to make him understand why he must come back alive. 

She will let him go to do what he must and not try to make him stay. She will wait and pray and not give up hope that he will return. 

She will try to bind him to her with something stronger than promises, to ensure that he can find his way back to her safely.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early this time since from tomorrow I expect to be knee deep in assignment writing until the end of the week. I do hope you all enjoy it!

Chapter 12

Sandor has spent the past day preparing to leave in pursuit of his brother, first meeting the soldiers that Robb Stark has assigned to join him and then overseeing the necessary details for their departure. 

There has been little time to focus upon anything other than the preparations and he is grateful for that; he does not wish to dwell upon either the past or what the future will bring. For years, the thought of killing Gregor has been the only thing to sustain him, the only meaning within a meaningless life. For years until… but it would be better not to think about that either, now that he is leaving. 

There is a good chance that he will die fighting his brother. Gregor is larger and stronger than him, and has a cruelty in tactics that Sandor cannot hope to match. There is a good chance that he will die and all he can hope is that he manages to either kill or fatally wound Gregor before he does. 

If by some miracle he survives, he will return to the Young Wolf’s camp and continue to follow him north, continue to watch over Sansa and ensure that she reaches her home safely once again. If he does not survive…

He has waited for this moment ever since he was a boy and yet now that he faces the possibility of achieving his goal, for the first time there is a sense of regret.

He does not wish to leave her. 

He does love her after all, in whatever way that he knows how. 

It weakens his resolve to leave, and yet he knows that it is for the best. No matter what she might think now, he is not the man for her. He can protect her, kill anybody who would try to harm her, but he would not know how to be a good husband even if he was given the chance. It would be a different matter if there were no other choice, if she had no family left, or if they had decided to give her to the Freys after all. Then he would’ve been the better option for her, might’ve even left this quest for revenge behind in order to protect her.

The possibility of killing Gregor one day may be what has sustained him for years, but his life is no longer as meaningless as it once was. As much as he’s tried to resist, his little bird has brought both light and hope into his life. She has given him a purpose other than killing, given him more than he had ever hoped for. He has changed as a result of this journey he embarked upon with her, and if he is to die now it will be with the feeling that there has been much gained but much still left undone. 

In the few months since they left King’s Landing she has given him more happiness than he remembers having in the entirety of his life before that. For the first time he has felt almost as if he is a whole man, a strong warrior rather than a loyal dog. She has believed in him implicitly, that there is goodness in him, that he will not let her down, and he has struggled to live up to her expectations and to be worthy of her.

Weaken his resolve these feelings might, but they also strengthen his will to live. Surely a man who has something to live for has more chance of emerging alive from a fight to the death than one who does not. 

Nothing is certain, and if he is to die then at least he has received a few months of kindness and grace and beauty before he does. At least he will be mourned and remembered by a girl who believes that she loves him. It is more than he ever thought to have. 

No matter what regret he might feel, it will be a relief to confront Gregor once and for all after a lifetime of playing over the scenario in his mind. His brother deserves to die, should have been put down like the mad dog he was while still a boy if their father had any sense. His father ultimately paid for his weakness in turning a blind eye to Gregor’s crimes but then so had his gentle sister who never harmed a single soul. The Lannisters would never punish their favourite dog for atrocities committed in their name, and so it falls to Sandor to stop his brother once and for all now that he can. 

Kinslaying formally approved by his new Lord and Master, Sandor can’t help but laugh bitterly at the thought. 

Once he would’ve killed Gregor purely for his own satisfaction, now he has begun to think of other lives that will be saved, of maidens whose innocence will be left intact. It is the way that his little bird would think, she has influenced him far more than she knows. 

He is almost ready to leave, Stranger is already saddled and ready and only Sandor’s armour needs to be fastened in place now. His men are still readying themselves, making their final preparations before they all leave in an hour’s time.

Sandor waits in the castle’s small sept, a simple seven sided wooden building with no windows. If he was a religious man then he may have said a prayer for his mission’s success but he hasn’t knelt to any god since he was seven years old and he first learned that no amount of praying would give him comfort or justice or peace. The fucking septons didn’t hesitate for one moment to bless his brother despite all his crimes. The Warrior certainly didn’t strike him down as he stood his vigil either. 

No, let his little bird keep her gods if they give her comfort, but Sandor will have no part of them. 

He turns at the sound of the door creaking and sees her enter, wearing a dark grey cloak with the hood pulled over her hair. Sansa decisively shuts the door behind her, drawing the bar only part way across so that it is not locked but there will be a moment’s delay if anybody tries to open it. He can’t help but give a low chuckle at her boldness. 

“You’ve become quite a clever little bird.” He tells her approvingly and she gives him a small smile. 

“I’m glad you came.” She tells him, taking a few steps forward so that she stands in front of him. “I wanted to say farewell properly, it might be some time before we see one another again.” 

She says the last part with determination, refusing to acknowledge now that he might not come back. 

“Aye,” he agrees with her, refusing to bring it up either. It’s far better if she bids him farewell with a smile and some hope that he might return. Let her keep her dreams for some more days at least. 

“I will miss you.” She tells him quietly, taking another step forward so that there is no distance between them. 

Bugger everything to all the seven hells, for this last hour at least he can pretend that he’s one of her true knights and that there really can be a happy ending to this. 

Unable to help himself he reaches out to touch her cheek, cups it gently and tries to smile down at her. His hand is so large that it could easily engulf half her face and he is very aware of the callouses on his palm against her smooth skin. She leans into his touch, sighing slightly, and brings one small hand up to hold his own there when he moves to pull away. 

“I will miss you too, little bird.” He tells her, and wishes that his voice might rasp less, that he might know the right things to say. 

Taking his hand from her face, she laces her fingers through it, holding on to him. He cannot help but wonder what she intends, she has never been so bold before. No matter what she might say, she knows that he might not return, otherwise she would never be this brave.

“I will be waiting for you to come back.” She tells him solemnly, “It will be a difficult journey North, and we will be in much danger from the Ironborn. I will be relying upon you to return to protect me.”

She is binding him with reason and promises and it makes him want to laugh to see her trying to give him reasons to return alive. As if he could need any reason other than her. 

He does laugh then, unable to resist. “I’ll make sure to kill my brother quickly then, so that I can come back to guard you.” He mocks, and sees her frown slightly, is sure that she’s biting back a reproach.

He cannot help but tease her to see how she fluffs up her feathers, but he lifts his other hand and strokes her hair, running his fingers through the strands that she’s left untied. 

“I will come back to you if I can, Sansa.” He tells her gently, “You don’t need to give me reasons to.”

It is the first time that he has called her by her name properly, with no honorific attached, and he hears her sharp intake of breath at the realization. With so little time left he’ll be buggered if he’s going to worry about meaningless proprieties. He’s already revealed enough about what he feels for her, she’d be a fool if she didn’t already know. 

She looks up at him, eyes shining, and places her free hand on his chest above his heart. 

“You have to come back.” She tells him, “We’ll go North together, you’ll like it there. I know you’ll love Winterfell as I do. I’ll pray for you every day until you return, I won’t stop hoping until…”

She leaves the last bit unspoken, until he either returns or she hears of his death. 

“And what will we do in the North once we reach there, little bird?” he asks her, tucks strands of hair behind her ear and allows his hand to settle on her shoulder. “You will be lady of Winterfell, sister to the King of the North, and I…” he laughs, but not unkindly. “I’ll still be your faithful dog.”

She looks up at him, unyielding, and raises the hand over his heart to touch his cheek, pressing firmly on the good side of his face. She has touched him like this once before, but then only on the scarred side. This time he can feel her fingers properly, can feel their softness as she traces his cheekbone. 

“Once we have gone North, then we will see what happens. I may be sister to the King of the North, but I will not sit idly by and let my destiny be decided for me.” She announces in a tone that will brook no opposition. “A faithful dog you may think of yourself as, but for me you will always be a man.” She pauses, hesitating over her next choice of words with a sudden shyness. “My man.”

She moves faster than he could have thought and before he can react, she has raised her hand from where it held his and brought her it up to the back of his head so that she can tug it down to bring his face to hers. 

She stands on her toes in order to reach him and when she presses her lips to his she is slightly awkward and fumbling, and it endears her to him all the more. 

He is not a good man, no matter what she might think, and as much temptation as she presents is impossible to resist. He certainly needs no further encouragement than what she’s given. He snakes one arm around her back to press her to him and holds her there, flush against his body. His other hand he uses to grasp the back of her head as he presses his lips down upon hers, kissing her back with a hardness and desperation that he cannot suppress. 

He has kissed precious few women in his life, they could all be counted on one hand with fingers to spare. Whores don’t require kisses and only the better trained ones who were curious about the feel of him ever tried. 

Her lips are soft and yielding beneath his, she has wound her arms around his neck and her mouth opens to him even as she closes her eyes. She is soft curves and graceful angles beneath his hands and he cannot help but wonder what he possibly did right to deserve this. 

“You’re mad, girl.” he rasps as he pulls back from her, “Anybody could fucking well come in and see us.”

“I don’t care,” she replies, eyes slightly glazed and breathing hard, her hair now a mess from where he’s had his hands in it. “I don’t care.”

“To hells with them all then,” he mutters and grasps her firmly, lifts her around the waist until her face is level with his and kisses her thoroughly. If he’s to die then he’ll do so with this memory in his mind, of a stolen kiss in a holy place. 

He explores her like a mysterious territory, mapping her mouth with his lips and tongue, her body with his hands. She gasps as his hand brushes against a breast and it is enough to remind him that she is entirely too young and innocent and that they are currently in a sept with only a half barred door and an entire army camp beginning to stir for the day around them. It’s a lucky thing too, for if they were anywhere else it would be a difficult thing to stop himself from going further, not when she’s given him such encouragement. 

He is hard and aching with need but he sets her down gently, allowing his hands to linger on her waist and brush against the curves of her hips. 

She looks as if she would like to protest again but he shakes his head at her slightly and releases her. 

“It’s time to go, little bird.” He tells her, and moves slightly away from her to put himself to order. She follows suit, smoothing down first her dress and then her hair until she is reasonably satisfied that she is once again presentable. 

When she is done she turns back to him and unable to help himself he leans down to give her on a gentle almost chaste kiss. 

“You will come back to me.” She tells him when he has pulled away, and there is so much certainty in her that for the first time he finds himself truly believing it too. 

“That I will, little bird.” He tells her, “Gods know that I’d fucking well kill the Warrior himself if I had to in order to return to you.” 

Fuck being a good man, an honourable man. 

Fuck standing aside and allowing her to marry some damned buggering lordling. 

He’ll kill his fucking brother, win the North for hers, and take her home. 

Then if she’ll still have him, he’ll take her for his own, all gods and kings be damned. 

She steps forward towards him again and raises her hand to his cheek once more. “Sandor, I…” she begins to say, but he hushes her. 

“Tell me when I come back, little bird.” He replies, leans down to kiss her one final time, then lets her go and strides away.

He’s unbarred the door and opened it when he turns back to look at her, sees the beginning of tears in her eyes.

“None of that,” he tells her, “Give me a pretty smile before I go.”

She does so, blinking away her tears and he gives her a smile in return, his lips twisting awkwardly around scarred flesh. 

He’ll be back, and next time he won’t be parted from her so easily.


	13. Chapter 13

“I wonder where the Hound is now,” Arya muses glumly as their plod north on Kingsroad, five days after they’ve left Darry. “Do you think that he’s found them and killed them all yet?”

Sansa has to force herself to keep her expression calm, where Sandor might be and what he might be doing is the only thing that’s been on her mind since he rode off to seek his brother. 

When she closes her eyes she can still picture him as he left her, an almost smile upon his face. That is how she wishes to remember him until he returns, with a hope for what someday may be. Until she sees him again she can only remember, recall the feel of his hands upon her waist and in her hair, the pressure of his lips on hers as he deepened the kiss she’d initiated. Others might think her wanton for her actions in the sept, but Sansa is glad that she has this one memory to cling to until he comes back again, a secret that she might hold close to her like warmth on a cold night.

“I don’t know,” she replies to Arya, “It depends on how long it takes for him to track them down. That alone could take awhile.”

Arya nods before shrugging, “He’ll kill them all for sure.” She tells Sansa confidently, “I just hope that he manages to bring back Needle for me.”

Sansa bites back a retort, Arya does not truly realize exactly how much is at stake here, she cannot. While her sister has abandoned her hatred of Sandor she has no real attachment to him, there is no way that she can be expected to understand the depths of Sansa’s worry. 

“I just pray that he returns safely,” Sansa murmurs instead, unable to hide the worry from her voice. “That all of them do. It will not be a simple deed for them to defeat the Mountain and his men.”

Arya appears slightly more contrite at that, glancing over at Sansa suddenly to peer intently at her face.

She has not slept properly since he left, unable to gain any peace or rest while she wonders where he is and what he is doing, whether the confrontation has taken place yet and what the outcome might be. It may take weeks for them to hear anything even after Sandor manages to track his brother down. 

“You really are worried for him aren’t you?” Arya comments, “You… care for him.” The last part is said almost with a tone of shock, as if Arya has only now discerned it, as if the very idea of anybody being attached to the man known as The Hound is alien.

Sansa looks over at her sister and wonders how much she should reveal. Arya has proven that she is able to keep secrets, but somehow Sansa knows that she is not yet ready for this one. Her sister’s shock at the very idea of Sansa caring for Sandor’s wellbeing only confirms this. 

“We have been through much together,” Sansa tells her instead, “You do not know him as I do. Nobody does.” The last part is said with more vehemence than Sansa had intended, but she cannot help it. She is worn down and anxious and she dearly wishes that she had somebody to confide in. There is nobody whom she may share her feelings with in her brother’s battle host. She does not know Talisa well enough and while she respects her brother’s wife they have not grown close. Her mother would never understand, would insist on Sandor being sent away when he returns and Arya… Arya is perhaps too young to understand what it is to love. 

Arya is silent, but Sansa can feel her staring even though she refuses to acknowledge it. She wonders if she has revealed too much but she cannot make herself regret it. She does not know when, or if, she might see him again and she desperately wishes that there was somebody that she could speak to about how she feels. Perhaps if Arya was older… 

“I do not really understand,” Arya finally says, keeping her voice low so that their conversation may remain private from the knights that guard them. “But I know that he’s not such a bad man as I thought him to be. I used to wish that he would die, that I could kill him along with all the others, but I don’t anymore. Ihope for your sake that he lives.”

Sansa wonders if she should be thankful for the fact that her sister is no longer praying for her sworn shield’s death. Certainly it cannot hurt, just as she hopes that her own prayers for his success and safety might be answered by the gods.

“You made him into a member of your pack, didn’t you?” Arya muses, “Just like I did with Gendry and Hot Pie.”

Sansa can’t help but smile at the way that Arya has phrased it, her younger sister has always reveled in the sigil of their house, even more so since they found the direwolf pups. She and Arya have both suffered the trauma of losing their wolves, have had to survive without that bond. Even now whenever Sansa sees Grey Wind by Robb’s side she still suffers a pang, a grief at the loss.

“Yes, I suppose that he is a member of my pack.” Sansa agrees, “The question is, whether you’ll accept him as a member of yours as well.”

Arya seems to think on it, “If he brings back my sword than I might.” She finally replies, “He’s a fierce fighter so I’m glad that he’s on our side. He isn’t so very bad, and he doesn’t treat me like a little girl… at least he’s more amusing than these ones.”

Arya gestures to the knights that surround them, knights who for the past few days have remained silent and aloof after their initial attempts to win Sansa over with flattery failed. She has been less forgiving of their efforts than she would normally be. Sansa finds herself short of courtesies with Sandor away, she cannot find it within herself to smile prettily or respond politely as she once would have. As a result their guard is now only courteous and respectful rather than friendly, there is nobody to talk to or for Arya to trade insults with now. 

Sansa gives a short laugh at Arya’s derision of their guard, and brings her horse closer so that she can reach out to muss her sister’s hair. It is already growing, their mother insists upon Arya regaining a length proper for a lady. Arya has complained about that point just as she’s complained about every other stipulation their mother has made that concerns her being ladylike. 

Meanwhile Sansa has tried to mask her growing anxiety from her family, and to stop it from overcoming her. To pass the long hours of night when she cannot sleep, she has begun to work on a new surcoat for Sandor, in the colours of his house with his family’s sigil. She had acquired the materials before they left Riverrun but never found the time to start it before he left. Now she attacks her task with a vengeance every night after arriving back from dinner, often sewing for hours by candlelight. Arya has not asked what she is doing, her little sister goes off to sleep easily enough though she seems to suffer from nightmares far too often. 

Once Sansa has finished the surcoat she will find something else to occupy her, a cloak perhaps, and she will ensure that they are ready to present to him when he comes back, because he will come back, he will…

It is then that Arya reaches over to touch Sansa’s arm, having noticed her sister’s preoccupation for once.

“He will be back.” She tells Sansa sincerely, “You don’t need to worry.”

Worry, Sansa will, but she gives Arya a small smile to reassure her anyway.

**

It has been a long seven days on the road, following the trail of Gregor and his men. It is not difficult to trace them, every village they come to seems to have a tale of their cruelty, each fresher than the last. They have already fought two skirmishes with straggling Lannister men, and lost one of their number. Somehow now aware that Sandor is on his trail, Gregor has burned the last two villages, charred corpses hung for them to see. 

Now as they prepare to enter the latest burnt out village, Sandor knows that the time has finally come. His brother is here, and after decades of wondering, he will finally find out how the enmity between them will end. 

In what must have once been the village square, Gregor waits for them along with his men, a cruel smirk upon his face. 

“Keep your wits about you,” Sandor rasps to his own men before they come into hearing range, “Gregor is mine, but the rest of them are fierce fighters, don’t allow them to provoke you into acting rashly. If I should fail, then do your best to finish him.”

If he should fail… but there is nothing more that he can instruct them to do in that case, no messages he can ask them to take back. If he should fail then they will probably bury him here itself, and better that she never has to look upon his corpse after whatever Gregor will do to him. 

The men that have accompanied him are brave and on the road here he has come to respect them, for what little that is worth. He hopes that they will survive but that is their own problem to handle, he can only think of his own fight.

As they approach he points one man out to them. “That one there is Polliver,” he tells them, “He should have the little she-wolf’s sword, a thin blade. No matter what, make sure one of you gets it back from him.”

A few of the men grin, Arya has quickly become a favourite around camp, seemingly underfoot everywhere, always with a question or a comment.

“Little brother!” Gregor’s voice booms out as they approach, “Would’ve kept the fires burning to welcome you if I’d known you were so close. Come to die, have you?”

“We’ll just have to see which fucker it is that dies today, won’t we?” Sandor rasps back.

Gregor laughs mockingly, “Do you really think that you’re up for the challenge? Half a dog, up against a mountain? Sure you’re not going to piss yourself and run away like you did at the Battle of the Blackwater?” he pretends to peer closer at Sandor, “Or have you fooled yourself into thinking you’re a wolf these days?”

Sandor only grunts, he knows that Gregor is trying to rile him up before the fight, distract him from his concentration. “I’ve found that wolves suit dogs far better than lions do.” He replies shortly. 

Gregor laughs again, shakes his head with a sneer. “So that’s why you turned craven and left the battle is it, so you could run with the wolves? Took their little bitch with you, didn’t you? Well I hope that her cunt was sweet enough to make up for what you’ll get from me now. Maybe once I’ve finished you, I’ll go show her what it is that real dogs can do to wolves.”

Sandor forces himself to remain calm, even as his grip tightens on his sword. He makes a gesture to stop one of the Stark’s loyal bannermen from darting forward in anger at the remark about his King’s sister. Sandor realizes the danger in his brother’s words, if Gregor escapes alive today then he will seek to harm her, simply to spite Sandor. Whatever happens to him, he will ensure that Gregor is finished, that he can never come anywhere near Sansa Stark. He hopes that that resolve alone will be enough to give him the strength to win this fight. 

“I’m no longer a pup that you can hold down, Gregor.” He tells his brother with false calmness, “You might not find it so easy to have your way when you’re evenly matched for once. Now are you ready to stop boring me with all your fucking whining and fight instead, or are you too craven to try me now that I’m grown? Maybe it’s only little boys you can win against.”

Sandor has managed to provoke him and there is a burning rage in Gregor’s eyes as he pulls his sword out with a roar, whipping his horse forward.

If Sandor had believed in any gods then he would prayed to them right then, but instead for a moment he allows himself to think of Sansa as he had left her, her lips warm under his. If it is to be his last proper thought before he dies, then he might be able to do so with some measure of peace. 

Then there is no time to think of anything but the battle at hand as Sandor urges Stranger forward, his own sword raised. Around him he is dimly aware of the other soldiers engaging but he blocks it out, focusing only upon Gregor’s approach, swinging himself to the side and raising his shield to avoid a cut even as he seeks to make his own. 

He cannot say how long their battle rages, even as around him he hears his own group claim their victories one by one. All Sandor is aware of is the clash of steel on steel, as he twists and turns to avoid his brother’s blows and make his own. Gregor is bigger and stronger, but Sandor is faster and more agile, escaping the worst of his brother’s cuts through skill. There is a cold cruelty in his Gregor’s eyes as they engage and Sandor does not doubt that if he is overcome, his brother will burn him before he finishes him off. As Gregor makes his own moves in anger and haste, cutting wildly and with more strength than thought, Sandor remains calm, deflecting blows and waiting for the right moments to strike.

He is tiring though, and he can feel blood flowing from a cut on his temple, as well as a dampness running down one leg. As Gregor swings forward, Sandor realizes that there is a gap has appeared in his brother’s armour, come loose from their maneuvers. For a moment it is unguarded, and Sandor makes one desperate movement, stabbing his sword through and into the flesh as hard as he can. He feels a sharp pain at his own side as Gregor’s sword slices into him, but he refuses to let go, twisting his own sword up so that it guts his brother, pulling out and then stabbing in again. 

Gregor looks at him as if in amazement, staring down at the sword in his belly before he raises his own once more to try and finish Sandor. He is too slow, and Sandor pulls his own sword out instead, smashing into Gregor’s sword hand with a resounding clash and knocking his brother’s sword to the ground. 

Gregor stands there for a moment as if he might wish to charge at Sandor, but there is blood gushing from his wound and Sandor suspects that the only thing keeping his guts in is the armour. He removes his helmet instead, spitting blood on the ground.

“Killed me after all have you, you fucking bastard?” his brother laughs, even as blood seeps from his mouth “Killed me for your fucking wolf king and your little bitch? Is that what you were waiting for all these years, someone to give you the order so you could roll over and do it? Think you’ll ever be anything other than a loyal dog to them? Think you’ll get anything for it? You won’t even get Clegane Keep, the Lannisters will take it away from you. You’ll lose everything one day, pup, the Starks will eventually spit on you, don’t think that your little cunt won’t eventually tire of seeing your ugly face either. You’ll have no joy of my death, brother.”

Once these words would have affected Sandor but he feels oddly detached at that moment, Gregor can no longer harm him. He has gained too much in the past few months, a surety of love and a confidence in himself that even his brother’s venom cannot remove.

“Maybe, but you’ll be dead, and that’s enough for me.” Sandor replies simply, “If there are any gods, Gregor, then you’ll burn in all seven hells, and our father and sister will be glad to see it. As for my ugly face, it’s the last fucking sight you’ll ever see, so take a good long last look.”

Gregor opens his mouth to retort but Sandor is keen to finish it, rather than bandy words with his dying brother. He raises his sword and swings it at Gregor’s head, cleaving into the neck. Gregor’s neck is too thick for the sword to completely cut through but it is done, and his brother is finally dead.

And it is over.

Looking down at the body, Sandor wonders what it is that he is supposed to feel. A sense of justice done? Relief at his brother’s death? Guilt that he is now a kinslayer?

All he feels is tired. Exhausted and weak, and he realizes finally that he is bleeding like a fucking pig and if he continues to stand there he’ll probably be falling over himself before he knows it.

Turning to survey his men he sees that two are dead, and a further four are injured, one so badly that he might not make the night. They are watching him, having already finished their own fights, their expressions a mixture of incredulousness and respect.

He is not certain that he wants it. Not for this, which he should have done years ago if he’d ever truly had the courage before now.

“Did anyone get the girl’s sword?” he rasps instead, his lips twisting into an almost smile when one of them holds it up. Maybe that’ll stop the little she-wolf sniping at him, maybe it’ll help stop the nightmares he guesses she must have after whatever she’s witnessed. A weapon by his side certainly helps him sleep better at night.

“We’ll camp here tonight, bury our own dead. We’ll burn theirs.” He announces, looks down at his brother’s body once more, lifeless eyes now staring up at the sky, devoid of whatever terror he spread while he was alive. He shall have no further hold over Sandor, never again. Let his body perish in the flames and be done with it, there’ll be no grave to mark Gregor Clegane’s passing.

“Claim anything you wish from the bodies before you burn them.” He barks out names, gives those who are either uninjured or only mildly so their tasks before he half collapses onto a nearby rock. 

“Now would someone come over here and fucking well sew me up before I have to join my brother in hell?” he rasps finally, loosening his armour as one of them scrambles to a saddlebag, intent on producing medical supplies.

Gregor is dead. 

He is alive. 

He had never believed that this would be the outcome. Never, not before…

He is alive and he bloody well intends to stay that way, to make it back to Robb Stark’s battle host, claim another kiss from his little bird and see her smile at him just so, every fucking day for the rest of his fucking life. 

He’ll be back with her soon, returning to her alive and well just as he thinks she must have prayed. He’ll be back with her and hear what she wishes to say, tell her a few things himself if he can find the courage. 

He’ll ride swiftly to be with her again, not give her a day’s more worry than is necessary. 

He might have just killed his brother, might have lost all hope of a claim to his childhood home, might not have anything to offer to her at except himself all but he knows she’ll not reject him when he says the words.

He’ll ride to join her as fast as possible, and he knows that when he sees her again it will be as if after the longest time, he’s finally come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Slightly late with this one as it was somewhat obsessed over, but glad that I did manage to get it out today as planned!


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Twenty one days, twenty one days and she’s heard no news. Almost a month now, and even if it had taken some time for him to find his brother, she had hoped to have heard some news by now, whether good or bad. Three weeks since she has seen him, three weeks of feeling constantly on edge, waiting, waiting for any news at all.

They make slow progress on the road North, careful of any attacks that might come from the direction of the Twins but Sansa wishes that they might slow further so that he may catch up with them quickly, when he comes back…

She has finished the surcoat for him, it stands ready, folded among her own clothes to keep it safe. She has begun work on a couple of new tunics for him now, in black and grey, stitching neatly and slowly to while away the nights. She has made clothing for her brothers dozens of times before, and she only hopes that she has not forgotten her skills. She has never measured him, but she feels that she knows him well enough, sees the breadth of him when she closes her eyes and estimates. It is no matter, they can always be altered when he comes back, when he comes back… She cannot bring herself to begin work on a cloak that might never be draped around her shoulders, she is not that strong.

There are dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep and she is mostly silent these days, unable to spout the courtesies that had once come to her lips so easily. When she must sit with her mother and brother in the evening she strives to appear more herself, chirping about trivial matters to keep conversation going or recalling memories of home. She knows she does not seem herself though, and Talisa has recently asked her if she is ailing, if she needs something to help her sleep at night.

Sansa gives excuses about the pace of the journey North, about exhaustion from being in the saddle all day, about being unable to sleep due to the noise of the camp. She makes excuses and they all accept them, all except Arya. Arya has begun to look at her askance these days, watching Sansa from the corner of her eye during the day and pretending to be asleep at night only to watch her at her tasks from beneath lowered eyelids.

Sansa thinks that her little sister has grown entirely too knowing in her time away from their family.

She has counted every day that he has been away, and tonight marks the end of the twenty-first. Twenty one days and surely, surely he must come back soon. Surely he must if he possibly can…

It is becoming more and more difficult for Sansa to deny the possibility that he might not come back. She shakes her head stubbornly, wiping at a tear that threatens to fall. She cannot allow herself to think such thoughts or she will fail completely. Instead, Sansa begins to sing the Hymn to the Mother quietly as she sews, hoping that somewhere She is watching over Sandor, ensuring his safety. She cannot stop herself though, and more tears fall as she thinks of him. He has changed so much since she first met him, Sansa had truly believed that the rage in him had been quieted, that she has helped him in that and now…

“Sansa?” Arya murmurs sleepily, sitting up from her furs.

Sansa wipes her eyes hastily, not wanting Arya to see her tears, and puts her sewing aside.

“Oh Arya, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” She asks, repentant. She wonders how many nights she has kept her sister awake now.

“You were praying.” Arya states simply, standing up to walk over to where Sansa sits. “You’ve been praying a lot lately.” Arya adds matter-of-factly, reaching over to pick up the tunic that Sansa had set aside, examining it. Sansa knows that at first glance Arya can tell exactly who it is for, it is far too big for their brother. 

“You’ve been crying a lot lately too, when you think I’m asleep.” Arya continues, glancing at Sansa from the corner of her eye as she turns the tunic over in her hands. 

“Arya...” Sansa knows that she needs to say something to her sister, but right now she has no idea what that might be. She desperately needs some type of support, somebody to speak to, and maybe, just maybe, Arya would understand. If Sandor is not coming back… but if he does, and if Arya were to say something to their mother or brother then everything will be lost. “It’s just… I’ve just been…”

“I might be younger than you but I’m not stupid,” Arya tells her, placing the tunic back into Sansa’s hands. “You can talk to me, you know. I understand what it’s like to not have anyone to talk to, to tell the truth to. Before, when I was alone and nobody knew who I was… it was very difficult to keep a secret that big, for so long. I was scared that somebody would find out, but then I told Gendry and he kept my secret for me. He kept it, and it made it a bit better that at least one other person knew.”

“Oh Arya,” Sansa sighs, “I’ve wanted to talk to you, but it is difficult to know what I might say. You and I, we have grown far too used to keeping secrets.”

Arya nods, perfectly serious for once. She reaches out to take Sansa’s hand, a little hesitantly. They are still very new at being on good terms with one another.

“I’m not entirely sure why you would care for such a great big, rude, ugly man as him, particularly when you only ever used to love pretty things.” Arya comments, “But I can tell you not to give up yet, I’m sure he’ll come back.” Her eyes sparkle for a moment before she says her next line. “After all, you’re here waiting for him aren’t you? Even the Hound can’t be such an idiot to miss out on a chance like that.” 

Sansa laughs at that, to her it seems like the first time she’s laughed in months. 

“Thank you, Arya.” Sansa tells her sister, reaching out to hug her. “I do feel better now that we’ve talked, even if I didn’t actually say anything.” She smiles softly, and grasps her sister’s hand. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“You’ve kept my secrets, haven’t you?” Arya replies, serious once again. “Now stop singing and go to sleep, if he comes back tomorrow then you’ll be sorry you look so ugly with those dark circles under your eyes.”

Sansa laughs again at that. She feels lighter now with the knowledge that Arya knows her secret, it is good to not be so very alone. 

“We’ll sleep then,” she tells Arya, “And in the morning maybe he really will be back.”

**

It is a further two days before Sansa’s hopes are answered. 

They are almost to the direct east of the Twins now and the host is on high alert. Robb is certain that Lord Frey will not simply allow his perceived insult to go unanswered. For now however, all is quiet, apart from the presence of scouts who seem to be marking their passage but who remain otherwise aloof. 

It is a day like any other, marked by the foul weather that has been typical of their journey so far, and it takes awhile for the news to work its way up to them from the rear guards behind the baggage train. 

As one of the guards comes galloping up, Sansa stops him with a gesture, wanting to know the news. “Are we under attack, good Ser?” she asks him, wondering if Robb’s fears have finally come to pass. 

“No, Lady Sansa,” the knight tells her, “Sandor Clegane and his men have arrived back.”

Sansa cannot help the cry of delight that escapes her lips at that moment, no matter how aware she is that she should be guarding her emotions. 

“Ride quickly to tell His Grace and ask him to call a halt.” Sansa commands, and the knight nods courteously before riding off to do so.

“Arya…” Sansa says tremulously, turning towards her sister.

“Well what are we waiting for?” Arya replies, “Shall we go?”

They wheel their horses around and ride towards the back of the train to meet him, giving the men guarding them no choice but to follow. Sansa knows that a proper lady would wait for her sworn shield to approach her instead, but Sansa cannot wait another moment to see him alive and well, she has waited long enough.

The moment that she sees him, oh she has never seen a more welcome sight. He and his men are still at some distance and have not spotted them yet, and Sansa cannot help but notice the way that Sandor is slumped over in his saddle, so different from his normal, proud posture. 

Instantly she knows that he must be injured, that he cannot have escaped unscathed. 

Then one of his men leans over to say something to him, and straightening, he looks towards her. The effect is instantaneous, they are closer now and she can see his face twist into something that she has come to recognize as a smile. He spurs his horse forward and the other men follow suit, galloping up to where they wait at the end of the baggage train. By now the host has stopped and Sansa knows that Robb must be either on his way or have dispatched a messenger to bring them to him. 

It is a matter of moments before Sandor is before them, Sansa and Arya have already dismounted and her breath catches as she sees him struggle to do so, his arms shaking as he clutches the pommel of Stranger’s saddle, using it to support himself as he makes his way towards them. 

Sansa desperately wishes that she could run to him, throw her arms around him and kiss him to welcome him back, yet here in front of everyone all she can do is drink the sight of him in, even as she aches to reach out and close the distance.

“I’ve returned, as I said I would.” He announces, when he stands only a meter from them, still leaning heavily on Stranger. “Gregor and his men are dead, and that is an end to it.”

Sansa takes a step forward, unable to help herself. “You have kept your promise to me. I was worried when it took you so long to return and…” She stops herself, knowing that she cannot say more here and desperately worried about him. “But you are injured, won’t you…”

He dismisses it, even as his face loses more of its colour. “Tis nothing,” he tells her, “It’s already been sewn up. We’ve been riding hard to catch up with you, we just need some good food and rest.”

She nods, even as she takes another step forward. There is something about his appearance that disturbs her, in the way that he is favouring one leg and holding himself carefully as if there is something wrong with his side.

“I’ve kept another promise too,” he announces, looking at Arya now, his lips twisted in a parody of a smile once more. Breathing heavily, he removes something from his belt and holds it out towards her, stumbling slightly as he loses balance. 

Sansa rushes forward to steady him, even as she sees one of the guards move to do the same. He is burning hot under her touch, and she almost jerks back in shock.

“Sandor, you have a high fever.” She murmurs to him, even as he holds out a thin sword in a scabbard to Arya, who exclaims in delight, rushing to take it from him.

“Aye, maybe I do.” He agrees, his vow lowered so that only she can hear, and this close to him she can see his eyes glazed with the effects of it. “Have felt it coming on, had to get back to you though, had to get back quickly. Kept my promises, killed my brother, brought back the little she-wolf’s sword for her, and came back to you. Thought I’d like to see your pretty face one more time if I was to die.”

His eyes close then and he seems to collapse. Sansa cries out in terror, trying to hold him up and almost collapsing under his weight herself as Arya darts forward, the sword forgotten, to try and support his other side.

“We need help!” Sansa cries out, “Somebody, help!” 

Two of Sandor’s men who seem to be in a better shape than the others rush forward to take his weight from the girls, placing his arms over their shoulders. 

“I want a tent erected and prepared right this moment, and my goodsister Talisa brought here with her supplies.” Sansa commands, amazed that she is able to keep her voice steady when internally she is panicking. “Bring me water and some cloths immediately and boil some wine.”

They scramble to obey her commands as she waits, helpless for the moment until the tent is prepared and the men carry him in to lay him down on some furs.

“He’ll be alright, won’t he?” Arya asks worriedly, clutching her sword to her chest as she stares down at him. She watches as her sister wets cloths to mop his face with, all the while commanding the men to remove his armour and clothing so that her goodsister might examine him properly. There is an angry wound on his leg and another on his side that appears to be deep.

“Little bird,” he murmurs in his fever and Sansa wants to weep.

“Shhhhhh,” she whispers, wanting him to conserve his strength. “You’ll be alright now, you’ve come back to me.”

When he has fought against all odds to do so, it is impossible that he might leave her again now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhhmm yes, bit of a cliffhanger there, but we do need them occasionally!


	15. Chapter 15

“I’m sorry, Sansa.” Robb tells her quietly, as he watches Talisa at work with one of the camp’s healers. “I have seen many wounded men after the battles we have fought, and it does not seem as if his chances are good.”

Sansa blinks to stop herself from crying, determined to remain composed and not reveal her own feelings.

“You’re wrong, Robb.” She tells her brother, “He’s strong, he’ll make it. He’s recovered from worse wounds than these, from… from his burns. He’ll fight, I know he will.”

“For your sake and whatever strange attachment you have to him, I hope that he may,” Robb comments, “For my own, I also hope he does. He is one of my best fighters and it would be a blow to lose him. To have defeated Gregor Clegane is no small feat… even if it has made him a kinslayer.”

“He is no kinslayer,” Sansa remarks and her voice sounds forceful even to her own ears. “Gregor was no kin of his for the cruelties he wrought upon him.”

“What do you know of it?” her brother asks her curiously, “I had not though the Hound one to share his family history with others.”

“Very little,” Sansa lies, “And nothing that I might divulge. Suffice it to say that Gregor Clegane deserves neither to be mourned, nor to be given the honour of being considered any kin of my sworn shield.”

“Now on that I can agree without hesitation. Once I would have thought them similar but they could not be more different men.” Robb admits. “If he does not recover then I shall be sorry for his loss indeed.”

“He has to recover.” Arya interrupts from her position in the corner of the tent, so quiet that they had quite forgotten about her. “I need to thank him, he brought Needle back and he killed… there are four who are gone from my list now.”

“List?” Robb queries, but Sansa changes the topic quickly for her sister’s sake.

“Might we halt for a few days to give him a better chance?” she asks, desperately hoping that the answer might be yes.

“I am afraid that I cannot agree to it, even for your sworn shield.” Robb tells her with regret, “We are far too close to the Twins as it is and the longer we linger the greater the danger is. We shall halt for the day and set out on the morrow. In the meantime I will ensure that there is a covered wagon prepared for him, the rest of his men who survived are luckily all still able to ride.”

“Sansa and I will ride in the wagon as well to watch over him,” Arya pipes up, surprising Sansa who knows that Arya would always choose a horse instead if given a choice. 

She realizes with a rush of affection that her sister has suggested it for her sake, so that there might not be anything improper in her remaining with him. While Robb’s back is turned, Sansa gives Arya a grateful smile.

It is then that Talisa stands, wiping her hands on her apron. “I have done all I can for him for now,” she announces, “He should be fed honeyed water every hour to give him strength and watered wine if he should complain of the pain. If he is to recover then he will regain consciousness within the next few days, but he shall need to be watched constantly until then.”

“Arya and I will remain with him.” Sansa says quickly, before any other course of action can be suggested. 

“That is fine for the daylight hours while we travel, but we shall have one of the healers remain with him during the night.” Robb states, with an almost stern look in Sansa’s direction as if to remind her that she should know better. “Talisa, please ensure that the best of the healers is assigned to him. I would have the utmost done towards his recovery, for we have great need of him.” He turns towards Sansa and Arya again then, “We will see you both at dinner.” He tells them before extending his arm to Talisa to escort her from the tent. 

Sansa waits until they have left and the tent flap is once again down before she moves to Sandor’s side quickly, picking up the cloth and cool water that have been left in order to relieve his fever. As she sets about her work, Arya moves to sit beside her. 

“Thank you,” Sansa tells her genuinely as she wipes the cloth gently first across his forehead, then down his neck to his bare chest. “I know that you have not always liked him, that in fact you used to hate him…”

“It is not that I like him so very much now,” Arya protests, “But he has done me a great service and I am in his debt for it.”

“Then you may thank him when he wakes up.” Sansa tells her with a sad smile, hoping that Arya will receive the opportunity to. 

**

The covered wagon is cramped, particularly with Sandor’s large body filling most of the space as he lays upon the fur that has been placed for his comfort. He is covered by another fur so that he does not catch a chill, but beneath it he has been stripped down to his smallclothes, the better to give the healers access to his wounds when they come to inspect and clean them. Arya has grumbled good naturedly about both the lack of space and her boredom, but seems content to sit looking out at the scenery, sharpening and cleaning her sword while she admires it.

It has now been two days since he arrived back and he still has not regained consciousness, though sometimes he tosses and turns in agitation, muttering words that cannot be understood. By day, Sansa feeds him honeyed water every hour, while trying to keep him cool and clean and murmuring prayers or singing. He seems to know that she is there, turning towards her and reaching for her, and she hopes that she might be giving him some comfort. 

It is difficult to leave him in the evening once they have made camp for the night, and to endure her mother’s polite query about his health or Robb and Talisa’s attempts to initiate conversation. It is all she can do to remain with them, and later to remain in her tent with Arya, rather than going to his side where she wishes that she could remain. 

If it were not for Arya then perhaps she would have gone mad by now, but her little sister keeps her sane by telling stories, trying to keep Sansa’s hopes up. Sansa is relieved that at least she does not have to hide her feelings as she sits by his side.

His fever is still quite high but he seems to be more at ease than he was the previous day and his wounds appear less angry. Today she sings Florian and Jonquiel to him, knowing that he loves the sound of her voice. From where she sits at the end of the wagon sharpening her sword, Arya rolls her eyes. 

“Are you trying to wake him up or send him into a deeper sleep?” she asks, “You should sing something more exciting than that if you really want him to wake.”

Sansa laughs softly, reaching down to brush some of his hair back from his forehead where it lies sticky with sweat against his skin. 

“And what song would you suggest I sing to him?” she asks Arya with a raised eyebrow. 

“One of the bawdy ones, like the Bear and the Maiden Fair,” her sister suggests perfectly seriously, “He’d probably like that much better.”

Sansa can’t help but let out a small laugh at that, and wonders if Arya is right. For now, she allows herself to brush her fingers through his hair, easing out the tangles that have formed as he tosses and turns. She resumes her singing, smoothing his hair back with one hand while she moves the other to take his hand in hers, cradling it in her lap. 

Finishing her song, she cannot help it when a tear slips from her eye as she looks down at him. 

She was a fool for ever thinking that songs where the hero dies at his lady’s feet were romantic. She would give up everything if he were just to open his eyes and speak to her once again.

She sighs and moves to release his hand, placing it back upon his stomach above the furs when he grabs for her suddenly, his grip tight around her wrist.

Sansa gasps and Arya turns back to look as Sandor opens his eyes, still bright with fever, and struggles to focus upon her face. 

“Gods, girl, but I fucking love you.” He rasps, “I would burn in all seven fucking hells just to have you.”

For a moment Sansa sits shock still before she lets out a sob, leaning down to kiss first his forehead, then each of his cheeks, and finally presses a soft kiss upon his lips. She lifts the hand she holds to press it against her chest next to her heartbeat, as tears roll down her cheeks. 

He murmurs “Sansa” once then, only to close his eyes again, this time seemingly in sleep as she hears a soft rumble from him. 

Still crying, Sansa begins to say a prayer of thanks to the gods both old and new, still clutching his hand to her breast, his fingers now curled around hers. She raises it to her lips, pressing kisses upon the back of it and each of his fingers in turn. It is only when she has finished that she remembers Arya, turning her face towards her sister suddenly.

Arya’s mouth is open slightly as she stares at both of them before turning to the back of the wagon to check that nobody else has observed, but their escort is far enough away and has apparently neither seen or heard.

“And to think I thought you were a perfect lady,” Arya says with a touch of amusement, staring at Sansa as if truly seeing her for the first time. 

Sansa has no idea what to say in reply to Arya, she supposes that she should be providing a better example of propriety to her little sister, she who has always been so dedicated to being the perfect lady.

“I…I know I should not have done so, Arya, but I was so relieved, and…” she trails off, all of her courtesies seem so meaningless compared to the joy of Sandor’s awakening.

“He’s a better choice than Joffrey at least.” Arya muses, “And while I’m not entirely sure why you would want him, as ugly as he is, he’s a good man, I think.”

“And you won’t tell anyone?” Sansa whispers to her sister, “It’s just that… Robb, and Mother wouldn’t understand, they expect me to make a good marriage one day and I…” Sansa has known for some time now that she will never make the good marriage that her family expects, that sooner or later when it is time to choose, she will choose him. There is no other possibility for her.

“And what do you plan to do?” Arya asks her thoughtfully, seeming to consider for the first time that Sansa might actually choose a future different to the one planned for her.

“I am still hoping that Robb might eventually agree, that he will see Sandor’s worth.” Sansa admits, “If Sandor should be instrumental in winning the North back for Robb then he may give him a lordship and lands. I have to hope that it is possible Robb might agree if he is raised to such a level.” Sansa steeled herself then, forcing herself to say out loud the words she had only thought until then. “But if he does not, then I shall leave with Sandor, and marry him regardless.”

Arya is silent for a long moment until she gives a sudden wry grin. “It’s funny,” she says, “But I always thought that I’d be the one to disappoint the family in some way or other, I never thought you would.”

Sansa gives a soft laugh, smoothing Sandor’s hair away from his face as he continues to sleep.

“Poor Mother,” she comments, “First Robb marries Talisa, and now I’m planning to run away with Sandor. You’d better let her choose a proper husband for you and plan a wedding or she’ll have lost all her chances to do so.” 

Once there would have been Bran and Rickon to make up for Sansa’s defiance, but now…

Arya makes a face at that, “Can you imagine me with a proper husband?” she asks Sansa, “He would probably expect me to be a proper wife.”

They both laugh at that, unable to help themselves. 

“No, that would be a terrible fate for me.” Arya continues, perfectly seriously. “If you and the Hound really are planning to run away then you’d better be prepared to take me with you to save me.”

This time, their laughter can be heard from outside the wagon.

Sansa looks down at Sandor’s face, seemingly at peace now as she strokes his hair. He is sleeping and will likely do so until the next day, in order to recover his strength from the fever. As much as she wants him to open his eyes, to be able to speak to him and tell him how much she loves him, Sansa can wait. One more day will make no difference when she knows now that a lifetime together is possible after all.

She is happier than she has been in weeks, perhaps happier than she has been since her father’s death. Sansa feels as if everything must turn out alright now that she has Sandor back, all possible obstacles appear small in comparison to this.

She will keep hoping, no matter how slim that hope might be, but her fate is bound up with his, and she must choose him no matter how much it might hurt her mother and Robb. 

The Tully words are Family, Duty, Honour and Sansa is not entirely insensible to them. She will wait until they have won back the North before taking any action, so that no harm will come to Robb’s campaign as a result. She will wait and give her family the chance to prove that they might stand up to society’s expectations for the sake of her happiness. 

Sansa knows the words of both her parents’ houses well, and that is why she stands firm in her decision.

Wedded they might not yet be, but Sandor is also her family now.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to keep to a schedule of posting once a week, but I would ask you to bear with me if it takes slightly longer over the next month! I've got 3 assessment items due before the 19th, all of them requiring a great deal of work and I might end up falling behind. I shall do my best not to, but wanted to give some forewarning in case I end up disappearing temporarily!

He awakes to the feeling of fingers in his hair and the sweet sound of humming. For a moment Sandor allows himself to simply revel in it, knowing that it must be her and that she sits by his side to tend him. After coming back from the brink of death he believes that he has earned that much.

Yet more than that he wants to see her face, and so he opens his eyes. 

She is looking down at him as she strokes her fingers through his hair, and so she immediately sees him awaken, letting out a gasp of happiness and reaching out her other hand to touch his cheek as if to confirm it. 

“You’re awake!” she exclaims happily, and he hears movement from nearby as somebody else moves towards him. Not knowing who else might be present with them he strives to keep himself calm when all he really wishes to do is gather her to him and kiss her senseless. 

It is Arya’s long face that appears above to look down at him, grinning as she does so. “See Sansa, I told you he would wake up.” The little she-wolf exclaims, wriggling slightly in excitement. 

“How do you feel?” Sansa asks him, a note of concern in her voice, but Sandor notices that she has not removed her hands from either his face or his hair despite her sister’s presence. “Do you need anything?”

“Help me sit up.” He finally rasps, his voice even rougher than usual due to days without use. 

“I don’t know whether…” Sansa begins to say, but he shakes his head at her and begins to sit up anyway, causing both girls to scramble to help him, Sansa’s arm supporting his back while Arya pulls on one of his arms to help him. Sandor is suddenly conscious of the fact that he’s naked beneath the furs except for his smallclothes, his chest bare and the air cold against him as he sits. 

That itself is quite an effort at first, and for a moment he simply sits still, breathing heavily as he feels the strain in his side from the stitches. His fever has robbed him of most of his strength and he knows that it will be days until he is back in any sort of fighting condition. 

“Give me something to drink.” He rasps, and as Sansa supports him, her arm warm on his back, Arya scrambles to get a wineskin from the corner of the carriage, uncorking it and placing it in his hand. His arm trembles slightly as he raises it to his lips and he notices the wine is watered down, but he can feel some strength slowly returning to him. 

As he drinks, he turns his eyes to look upon Sansa, at the happiness apparent in a face made weary by fear and grief. There are dark circles under her eyes and she appears to have become thinner since he left her. He is not certain whether to feel shame or pride that worry for him could have such an effect on her.

“You look unwell, little bird.” He tells her softly, “You shouldn’t have worried so much, I’m not so easy to kill.”

Sansa suddenly bursts into tears, throwing her arms around his bare shoulders and burying her face against his neck as she sobs. She is so very warm and soft and alive against him and he cannot stop himself from wrapping his arms around her to draw her closer or placing a gentle kiss on her hair. 

For the moments that he holds her he forgets everything, even that there is anybody else inside the wagon with them until Arya clears her throat pointedly. 

Sansa raises her head from his shoulder, startled and seeming to have also forgotten her sister’s presence.

“I’ll go tell Robb that the Hound’s awoken.” Arya announces, before continuing pointedly. “It should be at least fifteen minutes before I arrive back with them.”

With that she moves to the entrance of the wagon, easily untying her horse from where it is fastened to the back and jumping onto it even as the wagon keeps moving before she lets the curtain fall back down. 

Alone at last, Sandor cannot stop himself from reaching out both hands to cup Sansa’s face, bringing his own towards hers until their lips finally meet. He kisses her with a desperate passion, not wanting to release her when he finally has her in his arms again after such a long time. It is all that he has thought about on the journey back to her, even as he felt the fever overtake him towards the end. That he would kiss her like this, her breath warm against him, the softness of her lips. He could gladly die now if that was the price for this. 

He feels her place one hand on his chest, just above his heart even as the other snakes around his neck, tangling in the hair at the base of his neck and pushing him closer. She is just as desperate to feel him as he is to meld himself into her. She is less hesitant this time, more confident of her actions as she matches him kiss for kiss. 

She is such a small thing in his arms, almost fragile against him and he swears that he will do whatever is necessary to keep her safe, protect her from any harm. 

He breaks from her finally, breathing hard and not wanting to but knowing that there’s things that need to be said before her brother arrives. 

“Gods, but I’ve fucking missed you.” He breathes, looking down at her. There is such an expression of love on her face, that it almost steals the breath from him. Her pupils are dilated with what he recognizes as arousal, her hair is mussed from the simple style she’s kept it in and she’s never looked so beautiful to him. Unable to help himself he leans forward to kiss her once again, harder than he probably should, demanding. She gasps into his mouth and it is all he can do to stop himself but he releases her and casts around for something to wear, his present state of undress not helping his self-control.

As if guessing what he wants she moves to the side of the wagon to pick up a tunic, helping him to wear it so that he does not strain his stitches. It is black, with simple embroidery at the sleeves and hem and he does not recognize it yet it fits him perfectly. 

“This isn’t mine.” He comments, surprised that there is anything available for a man of his size.

Sansa bites her lip, suddenly nervous. “I made it for you, while I waited for you to return.” She admits, looking shyly at him as if to judge his reaction. He cannot help the pride that he feels rise within him, the fierce rush of love for her.

“I’ll still be kissing you when your Kingly brother arrives at this rate,” he mutters, gathering her to him once again. There is a part of him that still cannot quite believe that she is his, even as she marks him as hers in a myriad of ways. 

When he is once again done he draws back from her, and raises a hand to stroke her cheek. She sighs as she leans into it, giving him a shy smile. 

“You’ve worried too much over me.” He comments, “I wouldn’t have had you put yourself in such a state.”

“I was so scared,” she admits, reaching out to take his other hand in hers, lacing their fingers together. “When you did not return for so long I worried that he may have beaten you. If he had…”

She is unable to finish her sentence, tears returning to her eyes and Sandor shakes his head.

“But he did not.” he states with a finality, “And it is over now. Gregor is dead and I will not think on him again. There’s no more need to worry over me either, there’s not another man in all the seven kingdoms who’s my match.”

She nods, accepting his reassurance, and reaches out to take both of his hands. He folds his fingers around hers, holding them tightly.

“I wanted to tell you something before you left, so that you might know it as you went to fight.” Sansa begins, her voice soft as she looks up at him earnestly. “You told me once that I didn’t know what it was that I wanted but in truth I have known for some time now, there is no denying it. It is you that I love, it shall only ever be you that I love. I am yours whether you will have me or not, and I wish to bind myself to you.”

“Oh Sansa,” Sandor breathes, an intense ache within his chest. “Oh my precious little bird.” 

He had known, even as he had stopped her from telling him. He had known, even as he had fought against it in the weeks before he left. He had known and yet to hear it from her own lips is a different revelation entirely. 

He kisses her gently this time, almost chastely, a soft lingering touch upon her lips. 

“I do love you, little bird.” He tells her solemnly, “More than I thought possible. More than I knew myself capable of. I love you and I will not give you up.” He strokes her cheek once more, his eyes fixed upon hers. “I am your man, whether for better or worse, and whether your Kingly brother likes it or not. I’ll take you for my own when the time comes.”

She gives a happy sob and hugs him tightly, pressing a kiss upon his neck where her face rests.

“I knew that you would eventually accept it, Sandor.” She tells him, “I knew that you must.” 

He wishes to kiss her again but he can hear an approaching commotion outside that must signal the arrival of the King and so he moves away from her, straightening his tunic and pulling at the furs while Sansa moves to sit slightly away from him, adjusting her hair and her skirts before she busies herself with the task of pouring some honeyed water into a cup to give him.

They both feel it when the wagon is called to a halt, Arya is the first to climb inside, peering in as if to check that they are both presentable.

She gives her sister a grin as if she guesses exactly what must have occurred, leaving Sandor to wonder exactly what it is that the little she-wolf knows about how things stand between them. 

As Arya moves to sit next to Sansa on the side bench, Robb enters the wagon, crouched over so that he might not hit his head before he takes his own seat, slightly in front of where Sandor sits so that he may see him properly.

Sandor forces himself to sit up straighter despite the strain, nodding his thanks when Sansa passes him the cup of honeyed water. 

“Your Grace,” Sandor acknowledges Robb after taking a sip to fortify himself, trying to repress the thought that just moments before he had had his King’s sister in his arms. 

“I am relieved to see you awake, we had almost despaired of your recovery until your fever broke.” Robb tells him, “Talisa said that you were very close to death.”

“If my brother couldn’t kill then no simple fever could either.” Sandor announces, “I’ll have a proper meal tonight and be ready to ride by tomorrow.”

Robb frowns at that, “Are you certain?” he asks Sandor, “There is no shame in resting for a day or two more and regaining your strength.”

“I’ve never been one to rest overly long,” Sandor rasps, “Doesn’t need much strength to sit a horse though I won’t be in fighting condition for some days yet. Will do me good to get myself up, before I start to feel like an invalid.”

“As you wish,” Robb acquiesces, “We are some days from Moat Cailin and as yet the Freys have shown no signs of wanting to attack so I expect that you should be recovered by the time your skills are needed.”

Sandor nods gruffly, wondering what else there is that his king wishes to talk to him about, that he has called a halt and come here personally. From the dying light outside, Sandor can see that it is evening and supposes that a halt would’ve been called soon regardless, but he cannot imagine any of the Lannisters ever coming personally to see one of their sworn swords like this.

Robb is looking at him closely as if deciding what it would be best to say and Sandor waits for him to speak. 

“I have already heard the tale of the battle from the men who accompanied you,” Robb finally says, “I do not require you to retell it for my benefit. They have told me of the leadership that you showed on the journey, and of your strength and courage during the battle. They respect you, all of them, and would be happy to serve under you at any time.”

Sandor glances towards Sansa to see that she is looking at Robb expectantly, happily, almost as if she had hoped for this conversation. He realizes that she still has hopes of her family accepting him as her choice, and unlikely as the possibility is he wishes that she may be right, for her sake at least.

“I have let it be known around the camp that nobody is to refer to you as kinslayer for your actions, lest they seek to incur my wrath.” Robb continues, “What was done was done upon my orders and for honourable reasons, Sansa is right and you should not be censored for it.”

And there it is again, his little bird has taken to defending him, chirping to his honour whenever she can. 

“I thank you for that.” Sandor states simply, not knowing what more to say. He bears no shame over his brother’s death and yet he would not have Sansa’s name muddied from her connection to him. 

Robb nods once, and then unexpectedly reaches out to lay a hand on Sandor’s shoulder. “Since entering my service you have proved your worth many times over.” He tells him, “When you have recovered, I would have you take a larger role within the host than merely that of my sister’s sworn shield.”

All that Sandor can do is nod, surprised by King Robb’s statement. He shall have men to command now he supposes, and a role in the war councils. So much the better if he is to prove himself in her family’s eyes, though it may take him from his little bird’s side. He’ll see her protected if he’s to be reassigned, the best knights tasked with guarding her. Perhaps in the end it is better that he is further removed from temptation until the time to act finally comes. 

Robb nods back firmly at him, claps him on the back and turns to his sisters. “I shall see you at dinner later,” he tells them. “We have halted for the night now, and I’m sure that when the morrow comes, Arya will be happy to be back to riding again.” He winks at his little sister before he exits the wagon, closing the flap behind him. 

Sandor slouches, exhausted from the effort and turns to look at the two girls. There is a hesitant smile on Sansa’s face while Arya is regarding him somberly. 

Sandor reaches out a hand to Sansa, placing it upon her knee whether in an attempt to reassure himself or her, he’s not really sure.

“Seems as if your brother has some tasks in mind for me.” He rasps, “I might be riding with you for only a few days more until he judges me well enough.”

“It is alright,” Sansa tells him softly, “I shall know where you are at least and we shall see each other whenever we make camp.”

He nods at that, knowing she is right. He cannot deny the attraction of having men of his own to command, an extra responsibility for the battles ahead. 

There is a slight clearing of a throat and he shifts his head to look at Arya, noticing that she’s grasping the sword he brought back for her. Knowing the little hellion, she’s probably not let it out of her sight from the moment she got it back.

“I need to thank you, Hound.” Arya tells him almost hesitatingly. “You killed those men and brought Needle back for me. It was given by my brother you know… Jon, my best brother. He’s far away at the Wall now and when I thought I had lost it…”

He does not need for her to say more, and he knows that it is awkward for her to thank him, so instead he reaches out and ruffles her hair. “Just make sure you keep it sharp, brat.” He tells her, “You never know when there might be some Lannisters or Ironborn to kill and you’ll need the extra protection if I’m to be away fighting.”

Arya nods, a small smile on her face now and when he turns to Sansa her eyes are shining. 

“The healers will be here soon to check on you,” she announces, “I will have some food sent to you here and Stranger and your belongings sent also. You should rest now, you will need to regain your strength if you will ride tomorrow.”

Strength, he will need, not only for the ride tomorrow but also to keep himself away from her now that he has finally made up his mind to have her. 

“That I will, little bird.” He murmurs. “That I will.”


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

In the end it is only on the second day after his awakening that Sandor is able to once again ride, the healers ruling that he was not strong enough on the first and refusing to allow Stranger to be brought to him.

He had cursed them all in the strongest language possible but reluctantly submitted, resolved to building up his strength so that they might not refuse him on the following day.

Since he was now recovered, Sansa and Arya no long rode with him in the wagon or he might not have minded so much. They rode alongside instead, taking their midday meal with him and making small talk as the girls’ guard watched over them. 

Today, Sandor finally rides alongside them once more. He can feel the strain of his injuries, a steady dull throbbing in his side and his leg but he is not concerned. He is no stranger to pain and he can feel the strength returning to him. As much as he hates to admit it, the healers were correct to insist that he wait one day before riding, and he feels the better for it. 

He cannot help himself from looking towards Sansa whenever possible, glad to simply see her face and have her smiling once more. She is looking better already, her face fresher than it had been when he first awoke, the result of two nights’ restful sleep.

He desires her greatly, can barely restrain himself now that he has known what it is to touch her. Yet with things as they are, surrounded by her family and her brother’s blasted bannermen there is nothing he can do about it for the time being. Stolen moments they might have on occasion, but he loves her too much to try and gain more from her here and now. She deserves more than a quick tumble in a darkened corner, he would never ask it of her even if he believed she would agree to it. Even were there to be an opportunity to take her, he’s not certain that she’s ready for that. He’ll not endanger her, nor break her trust in him by pressing for it before she is. He will not dishonor her in that way, she who is everything to him, no matter how difficult it is to control his need for her. He’s perfectly able to take care of those needs himself as he has for years, no matter how much he wants her.

She is highly born and gently bred, and he is certain that she has no real idea of what happens between a man and a woman, which restrains him even more. Yet despite her innocence she desires him; he knows it from the way she looks at him, from the way she had embraced him after he awoke. She desires him and the very idea of it is almost enough to make him forget every shred of honour he believes himself to have. Nobody has ever desired him before, not after looking upon his face, and it amazes him almost as much as her love for him does. He’ll have her one day, and the thought of it keeps him in an almost constant state of arousal, but if the gods are good she’ll be his wife first, as she deserves. 

“You are looking much better today.” Sansa tells him, breaking his train of thought. She speaks softly, careful that her voice does not carry to the knights that ride slightly ahead of them or those with the baggage train behind. 

“I feel it, too.” he agrees, forcing himself to set aside his previous thoughts. “I’ll be ready to fight by the time we reach Moat Cailin.” 

They are still two weeks away from the fort, and he does not anticipate the need for any battles before then. The Freys have apparently allowed their better sense to prevail rather than avenging the perceived insult from Robb Stark. In a matter of days they will be close to Greywater Watch and there will be no trouble from that quarter at least, to hear tell of it the Reeds are the Starks’ most loyal bannermen.

Glancing towards Arya where she rides slightly ahead of them, Sandor bends his head towards Sansa where she sits on her own horse, close by to him. 

“What does your sister know of us?” He asks her in a low voice, always conscious that someone might be listening. It is the first time since he awoke that they have had any privacy to speak and he means to take advantage of it. With her brother wishing to reassign him to other duties it may be one of their last opportunities for some time as well. Gods only know when he might have the opportunity to be truly alone with her, but he suspects it could be months.

“She knows.” Sansa replies, confirming his suspicions after Arya Stark’s lack of surprise at their actions the day before yesterday. “Arya figured it out on her own, though it would have been difficult for her not to realize in the end. She has been a great support while you were away, she will not betray us.”

He would never have guessed it to be the case, judging by how the brat used to hate him, but it seems that they have one ally now.

“What do you mean that it would’ve been difficult for her not to realize?” He asks her curiously, wondering exactly what has happened in the time since he has been gone.

Sansa gives him an amused, affectionate smile. “You may have said something while you were not fully conscious.”

“Seven hells,” Sandor swears, wracking his mind for a memory of it. “What exactly? Nobody else heard did they?”

Sansa looks like she is trying very hard not to laugh, her eyes sparkling. “Let us simply say that you confessed that you loved me, in your own unique style.”

“Fucking hells, in front of her?” Sandor swears, and Sansa nods, still looking as if she is fighting to suppress a giggle. He hopes that one day she might tell him exactly what it was that he said. He’d been so desperate to say the words to her that gods only know how they came out in the end. 

“And she approves?” he asks doubtfully, still not quite able to believe it.

Sansa inclines her head to one side. “Arya knows what it is to want to set your own path in life, to want something different from what others wish for you.” Her lips quirk in a soft smile then. “She told me that if we mean to elope then we should take her with us, so that she might escape whatever marriage they mean for her.”

Sandor lets out a low laugh at that, it certainly sounds like something the girl would say. He can’t help but wonder exactly how the upright Lady Catelyn Stark, who continues to look at him as if he is dirt, would react if he was to steal not one but both of her daughters from her. The thought gives him a fair amount of amusement before he forces himself to return to the matter at hand.

“You do mean to go with me then, whether they will allow it or not?” He asks her, still unable to quite believe it. 

“I do.” She confirms, turning her face to gaze at him, a resolute expression in her eyes. “I love my family and I will be loathe to leave them if it is necessary, but I have made my choice. I only ask that we wait until Robb is in a better position before we act. I would not have him lose the support of his bannermen or the campaign harmed in any way through my actions.”

She is more mature than her Kingly brother in many ways, willing to put her family’s and her House’s needs before her own wishes even if it means a wait of years. He cannot help but feel proud of her, of her understanding and sensibility. Had things been different then she would have been a good queen for the realm, though she would have suffered for it.

As impatient as he is to have her as his own, he’s prepared to wait until the right time presents itself. A month ago he would not have believed that such a thing could be possible at all, as determined as he was that he would be no good for her. He is still not certain that he is the best man for her, but he loves her with a fierceness that will not allow him to leave her, nor let her belong to anyone else. Gods help him, but he’d kill any other man who tried to lay claim to her no matter who he might be. 

“Don’t worry, little bird. I’ll ensure that your family is safe and sound back in Winterfell, and the North won before I steal you away from them.” He assures her, a dark glint in his eyes as his lips curl into a snarling smile at the thought.

“It is possible that you may not need to steal me,” she muses, “Robb has shown a great trust in you in his request that you take a more active role in the battle host. He respects you, perhaps even likes you. When he has made his own marriage for love, I cannot believe that he would be so unfeeling as to reject my own wishes.”

Sandor chuckles then, the sound coming out harshly. “Kings set their own rules, little bird, and there’s generally one for them and another for everyone else. They won’t suffer their women to have the same freedoms as them either. Take my word on it, he’ll not agree no matter whether I have his respect or not. When the time comes I’ll ask him nonetheless though, if it pleases you.”

“It would please me,” Sansa replies softly, smiling as if at his thoughtfulness as she looks at him. “I am glad that you are willing to honour my family in that way no matter what their response. Though I would only wish it if there was no danger for you, nor any chance of violence between you and Robb.”

“I doubt it’ll come to that,” Sandor comments, “Though he might seek to banish me for it. We’ll make our plans carefully when the time comes.”

“And where might we go?” Sansa muses, her eyes somewhat far off. “The South is already lost to us, the North shall be as well if we defy my brother, and the Riverlands are ruled by my uncle. There shall be no place for us within the Seven Kingdoms if Robb does not agree.”

“And would you still go with me if it meant you were to be an exile, and had to leave Westeros?” Sandor asks her seriously, needing to have it confirmed yet again before he allows himself to begin thinking of possibilities. It is one thing to ask the little bird to leave her family, and quite another to ask her to leave her land. “Think on it, it would not be an easy life if we were to leave for Essos. I have most of my winnings from the Hand’s Tourney to see us set up, but it would be a difficult journey and a life of some hardship. There’ll be none of your high living or fineries if you leave with me.”

“Why do you keep asking me the same question, do you trust my love for you so little or merely my resolve?” Sansa asks him, quietly but with a tone of steel. There is reproach in her eyes and he cannot help but duck his head in an almost apology.

“I do not doubt you, little bird.” He tells her, almost contritely. “But I am not accustomed to…” He does not know how to say it, and swears under his breath, suddenly tense. If they are truly to have a life together then he needs to learn to trust her completely, that she will not change her mind in this.

Sansa reaches out a soft hand to touch his arm briefly, glancing ahead at the guards to check that they are not paying attention. 

“I understand,” she tells him, “In time you will learn not to doubt my love for you.” 

The look she gives him burns through him, and he finds he must turn his attention back to the road before he does something rash. 

“I will most likely ride with you for only two days more before I begin my new duties.” He informs her, “Your brother will ensure that you have good men around you to guard you.”

“And I have my daggers, and Arya her sword if it should come to that.” Sansa remarks, a hand straying to touch the dagger fastened to her wrist. “Though I hope it might not.”

“Aye, it had better not.” Sandor comments darkly, disturbed by the possibility.

“We shall not be able to spend as much time together, it shall be difficult to find any time to speak privately either.” Sansa comments, regret on her face as she considers it.

“You are right on that, though I’m pleased at your Kingly brother’s trust in me, it shall mean that we shall see each other very little.” He confirms, “Though we may not be able to speak, I shall look for you when we make camp at least, to see your face.”

“I shall be strong, it will only be a matter of a couple of months more before we reach Winterfell if all goes well, and we shall have time enough then. I can be patient when I know you are nearby, if only for the occasional glimpse of you.”

A matter of a few months more and then he might have her for his own for the rest of his life. 

Sandor can sure as all fucking hells live with that. 

**

Sansa and Arya walk into dinner arm and arm that night, still giggling from Sansa’s recounting of Sandor’s confusion over what he might have said. Arya has been trying to control her laughter for most of the short walk from their own tent and she lets out one final snort, setting Sansa off once again. They force themselves to become sober, Arya biting her lip in the effort.

“It is wonderful to see you two on such good terms,” Their mother comments, watching them with an affectionate smile on her face. “I remember there was a time when you could barely have a civil conversation.”

Sansa smiles in reply to that, though it is a little sad as she thinks on exactly how this change has come about. “We’ve both grown up, the things we used to fight about seem so unimportant now and…”

And they are now bonded by shared secrets and histories, experiences of pain and loss. It is far more than just their increased age that has brought Sansa and Arya together. 

“Grown, you both have.” Catelyn Stark comments with a sigh, “I said goodbye to two little girls and I feel that I have had two young ladies returned to me. Arya is growing too fast for the clothes we have for her, and you, Sansa, already have a woman’s figure.”

Sansa blushes at that, oddly pleased to know that her mother thinks so. She had considered herself a young lady already when she left Winterfell, now after everything that has happened she feels like a woman grown. In less than a year she will have reached her majority and be properly an adult, but she already feels as if she is beginning to understand what it means to be a woman. Caresses and kisses and feelings within her that she does not yet completely understand. No, she is not a woman yet and does not completely understand what it means to be one, but she finds that she almost aches to find out.

“If the clothes become too small for me, then I can always wear Robb’s old clothing.” Arya suggests slyly, looking to see her mother’s reaction. 

Catelyn Stark gives her an exasperated look, “I know that you would like that, Arya, but you are too old now to go around in breaches and tunics. If your dresses do become too small then both Sansa and I are perfectly capable of altering them.

Arya makes a face, and takes her seat at the table.

Robb and Talisa walk in together, smiling and talking in low voices. He escorts his wife to her seat before taking his own, a tender smile on his face. 

Sansa cannot help but suppress a smile of her own as she watches them. When Robb loves his own wife so much, when he sacrificed the benefits of an alliance with the Freys for her, he must understand Sansa’s wishes. Sandor has been right about many things, but she cannot believe that he is right in this too. Her brother does think like a king, and he has been willing to marry her off for strategic purposes in the past, but she knows that he loves her. He may be reluctant to agree with her marriage with Sandor, but in time he must give in. 

“I wonder how Robb first told our goodsister that he loved her.” Arya muses under her breath, “Perhaps I should ask him so we can make a comparison.”

That sets the girls off into a new round of giggles, as Robb and Talisa look at them, bemused. 

“Do not worry,” Lady Catelyn tells her son and his wife, “They’ve been like that since they arrived tonight.”

Robb gives them both an affectionate smile and motions for them to begin their meal, reaching out to take his own helpings and serve his wife. 

“It shall be an immense relief when we have retaken Moat Cailin,” Robb comments as they begin their meal. “I am hopeful that with the help of the Reeds it need not be a prolonged siege.”

“Have the scouts whom you sent ahead to find Greywater Watch returned yet?” Lady Stark asks. The seat of the Reeds is built upon one of the floating islands of the swamps in the Neck, and difficult to find. 

“They should return to us by tomorrow or the next day, along with some crannogmen to guide us.” Robb states confidently, “And then I shall go to meet with Lord Howland and request his assistance. I would appreciate your presence as well, Mother.”

“He will not refuse you,” Catelyn Stark replies confidently, “He was ever a good friend of Ned’s and the Reeds have always been loyal bannermen to House Stark.”

“How do you plan to retake Moat Cailin?” Sansa asks Robb curiously, “I know that it is difficult to attack it from the south.” 

She hopes that the siege may not be too long and that the loss of life might be minimal. They have lost too much already, and with both Sandor and Robb to be on the battlefield she cannot help but hope that the Fort may be retaken easily. Until it is, they will be stuck on the thin stretch of road over the Neck, surrounded by swamps and besieged by insects. The longer that it takes them to proceed North, the longer it will a take to reach Winterfell. Her home lies in ruins, and if they are to have any hope of surviving the Winter, they must begin rebuilding as soon as possible. It is a different matter entirely that Sansa knows not for how much longer it will be her home. 

She longs for the North, to once again sit within Winterfell’s solar or pray in its godswood, to see it rebuilt and put to rights. She longs for it even as she already begins to feel a sense of loss, knowing that when she marries she must leave, whether it be to a nearby holdfast or across the seas to Essos.

“The Reeds know secret routes through to the other side of the swamp. I will ask them if they might guide a group of my men through to retake the fort from the North by surprise. The main battle host will remain here on the Neck as a diversion, ready to move once all is in place. I am confident that the Ironborn have not left a large contingent there, even one hundred of our men should do it.”

“Will you lead the men who will retake the fort, Robb?” Arya asks him eagerly, already imagining it. 

“No, I must be here in view lest the Ironborn suspect what is happening.” Robb tells her, “I had thought to give the task to the Greatjon and his men.”

“And will the Hound go with them too?” Arya asks him, ignoring a sharp look from her mother. Sansa waits for the answer, glad that she did not have to ask it herself. 

“No, Clegane shall remain on the Neck with the forces I mean to place under him. If seeing the Hound at their gates is not enough to keep the Ironborn distracted, then I do not know what would be.” Robb announces with a wry grin. 

“He is the head of his House now, and with the men that you are placing under his command it would be fitting to fly the banner of House Clegane along with those of your other bannermen.” Sansa suggests quietly, hoping that it might not be too much to ask. If she is to be able to marry him without needing to run away, then it is essential that his importance is increased not only in Robb’s eyes, but in his bannermen’s as well.

“A good suggestion.” Robb agrees, “That shall certainly give the Ironborn pause, they will not have heard of The Mountain’s death yet, and it may give them cause to fear us more. Will you see to it, Sansa?”

She nods demurely, glad that Robb has agreed and not wanting to reveal just how happy his acceptance has made her.

“Are you sure it is wise to give Clegane this much importance?” Lady Catelyn asks Robb with a frown, “I am not entirely convinced of the wisdom of placing men under command in the first place, let alone this. He has only been with us for a matter of months now, your loyal bannermen may come to resent it. He may be the head of his House, but he has no actual Keep in his possession, nor any men of his own to pledge to your cause. If you allow him to believe that his support is vital to you then he may ask much of you as reward once the North is won.”

Sansa forces herself to be silent, even as she wishes to speak up in his defense. This is Robb’s position to justify, not her own, and she must not reveal her feelings until she is certain of success. 

Arya feels no such compunction however, and speaks before her brother can. “That’s unfair!” she exclaims, “He left everything to save Sansa and fight for Robb, when he could have remained with the stupid Lannisters and kept serving them. If he hadn’t killed the Mountain and his men then we might have been in danger from them as we tried to go North. After everything he’s done for us, and for me, I think he deserves it.”

“Arya,” her mother sighs, “I know that you are pleased he brought back your sword, but that does not really justify this level of trust.”

“And yet I do trust Clegane,” Robb comments pointedly, his voice that of the King once again. “He has served me well thus far, and I believe he shall continue to do so. He is wasted serving only as a guard for the girls and I mean to make use of his abilities. I do mean to reward him when we regain Winterfell, though I have not decided exactly how as yet. There are certainly empty Keeps enough to grant and he would be a valuable bannerman to have in future.”

Sansa feels her heart soar as he says these words, her hopes answered. It is a start, and an important one. If Robb is prepared to defend Sandor against her mother’s suspicion, then there is reason to hope for the future.

“He will not let you down.” Sansa states quietly, “I know his quality, and he is loyal to the last. He would not have left the Lannisters without such provocation as they gave. He should have been born a Northman, he would have made a worthy bannerman to Father if he had been.”

“Aye well, you’ve brought him to my side now.” Robb tells her amusedly, “And I suppose if he can ever find a woman to marry him then his children will now be Northmen and my bannermen, and may the Lannisters choke on that.”

Sansa wonders if Robb would wish the same if he knew that those children would be his kinsmen as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very sorry for the delay on this, the next part will most likely be up sometime after the 19th since I'll only have one assignment left by then and plenty of time to write it. A big thank you to everyone who left comments since they make me incredibly happy :)


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

They are one day away from reaching Moat Cailin and Sandor can already feel the anticipation building within him. If all goes well then it should not be a long drawn out siege, but there will be fighting to be done and he looks forward to seeing how his newly assigned men perform. King Robb has given him a selection of fifty bannermen from small Keeps and Holdfasts who have no natural leader of their own and he finds it somewhat fitting. Like him, they are sons of minor houses, all seeking to distinguish themselves in some way in this war. He has ridden with them as a group for the past two weeks, drilling tactics and strategies into their heads. In the evenings he chooses two or three of them to spar with, testing their skills and trying to improve upon them. He is not as hard upon them as he could be, knowing that they’ll all need to be at their best for the upcoming battle rather than hampered by bruises that he might give them.

The formations for the siege have been arranged and shared with the leaders amongst the host. Not a day after Sandor rode again for the first time after his injuries, some crannogmen had appeared and guided King Robb, his lady mother and the Greatjon to Greywater Watch where the strategy was planned with the Reeds. The Greatjon’s men have since departed on their path through the swamp, expecting to appear on the other side roughly three days after the rest of the host reaches the south end of Moat Cailin. It will give the rest of their forcees enough time to give the appearance of setting a proper siege to distract the Ironborn from the danger that will come at them from the north. All in all, Sandor approves of the young King’s tactics, it is a wise plan and one which should bear fruit. He knows his own part in it, to ensure that he is seen from the battlements in order to give the seawashed bastards even greater pause and to assist in securing the Gatehouse Tower once the signal to attack has been given.

In the thirteen days since he began seeing to the training of his men and their formation into a proper unit, he has not had the opportunity to speak to Sansa. The duty of guarding her and Arya has fallen upon other men and despite knowing the necessity of his current tasks, he cannot help but regret it. He has caught sight of her only at a distance, lucky enough to catch her eye a few times and see her give him a small smile. Even those small glimpses are enough to heat his blood, testing his patience more than he would’ve thought possible. Seven hells, but he burns for her. 

They have just made camp for the night and he is busy giving his men instructions when he sees one of the girls’ chosen guards heading towards him, a purpose in his stride. Despite knowing that there cannot possibly be anything wrong, Sandor can’t help the sudden stab of worry that courses through him. He forces himself to remain still and his expression impassive as the knight stops in front of him. 

“Your presence is requested in Lady Sansa and Lady Arya’s tent,” the knight informs him, and Sandor nods, dismissing the man. 

He wonders what excuse the little bird has found to call him to her, and how much time they might have together. For appearances sake he supposes that Arya must be there as well, which stops the more lustful thoughts of what he’d like to do with this opportunity. 

Gods but what he’d give just to hold her, no matter how much more he might wish for. If anything being parted from her has only increased his desire rather than quelled it, and he can’t help but wonder what effect it has had upon her. 

He shouts out some final instructions before striding off, knowing exactly where the girls’ tent has been set up for the night within the camp. Even if he cannot see her, he at least knows where she is, prepared in case an attack occurs and he must reach her quickly.

He clears his throat when he reaches the opening to the tent, barely able to restrain himself from simply striding in to see her. Appearances are important however, and he waits until he hears her softly called ‘Enter’ before he opens the flap and walks in, dropping it quickly behind him. 

Arya is there, as he’d expected, but she’s seated towards the back of the tent and appears to be sewing something, a strange occupation for the girl. She gives him a quick grin and he nods in acknowledgement. She can’t keep his attention for long though because there is Sansa, standing up to greet him and walking towards him with the happiest smile he’s ever seen. 

She’s so fucking beautiful, and he’s wanted her so damn much these days they’ve been apart that he can’t help himself from striding forward and grasping her by the arms to pull her towards him. She makes a surprised ‘Oh’ sound, but she’s already raised a gentle hand to touch his cheek and is looking up at him with a softness in her eyes. He wraps one arm around her back and curves it around her waist to bring her closer. 

Arya makes an outraged noise and he swivels his head to face her but doesn’t let go of Sansa, holding her more tightly if anything. 

“I might be prepared to accept that my sister loves such a big ugly idiot as you, but I certainly don’t want to be witness to it.” Arya tells him, a disgusted tone in her voice. 

“Better turn around and not look at us then, brat.” Sandor rasps at her, a spark of amusement rising in him. “Because it’s been two fucking weeks since I’ve even seen your sister properly and I fucking well intend on kissing her.”

Sandor…” Sansa starts reproachingly, but whether it’s in reaction to his swearing or his intentions he has no real idea. He’s not sure he cares either and so he cuts off her words, gripping her waist to lift her until her face is level with his and kissing her soundly for a few long moments. He can feel his arousal growing as he presses her against him, hardening against the softness of her body.

She clings to him, kissing him back just as fiercely, and it’s all he can do to make himself put her down, and be satisfied with that alone. He notices that the little she-wolf has turned around to face the wall of the tent and is jabbing at her sewing angrily while she mutters something under her breath. 

“You can turn around little wolf, I’m finished for now at least.” He laughs, the sound coming out like steel scraping on stone. 

Arya does turn around, fixing him with a glare that is filled more with annoyance than any real anger. “You’re lucky that I’m in your debt, Clegane, or I’d stick you with Needle for handling my sister like that.” She announces, “It’s not like you’re married to her or anything.”

He gives another laugh at that, and allows his fingers to splay across Sansa’s hip where he holds her, feeling her warmth beneath his hand even as she blushes a charming shade of red. 

“And who says that you have to be married to do such things?” he mocks, “You’ll know better if you can ever find a boy who likes you, brat.”

“Sandor, really…” Sansa remarks disapprovingly as Arya once again turns around in a huff. “She is only thirteen and it is hardly proper…”

His lips twist at that, amused at her primness considering all that she’s allowed him to do so far. His proper little lady, so dedicated to being a good role model for her hellion of a sister. 

“Are you upset with me, little bird?” he asks her, shifting his hands to cup her face instead and lowering his voice so that her sister cannot hear. “I shouldn’t have done so in front of her, but seven hells I’ve missed you these past days.”

“I could not be upset with you for that,” she tells him, her eyes shining. “I have missed you too, I know how difficult it is, I have also wanted…” she stops, blushing and embarrassed. “It is only that it is somewhat awkward to have Arya witness…”

“Aye well, we’ll have no time alone for far too long for my liking, so your sister is going to have to get used to looking at the tent walls.” Sandor comments unrepentantly. “I can wait to take you away and have you as my own, but I sure as seven fucking hells am not going to wait for months on end to at least touch you when I get the chance.” 

She nods, blushing even more but with a look on her face that says she agrees with him though she’s too proper to admit it. 

Dropping his hands from her face he places them on her waist instead, allowing his fingers to rest upon the enticing curve of her rear and his thumbs to idly stroke her hips through the thick material of her skirt. “I’m glad that you found an excuse to call me here little bird, but I won’t be able to stay long lest people wonder at it. Was there a reason?”

She nods distractedly, tilting her head to look up at him, her gaze a beguiling mixture of shyness and ardour. Almost unconsciously she allows herself to extend one hand to his neck, her fingers trailing a soft path down until they find his collar bone, tracing along it feather light until she stops, just past the opening of his tunic. 

He takes a sharp breath in, and digs his own fingers more deeply into her hips, inadvertently startling her from her exploration as she drops her hand rapidly. 

“If you keep this up then you’ll make me forget we’re not alone, girl.” He tells her roughly, knowing that he should let go of her now if he wants to retain any measure of self control but unable to force himself to. She nods more firmly this time and reluctantly moves away from him, his hands sliding off her waist as she does so.

Sansa makes her way to the chest that stores her things, stopping to kiss Arya’s cheek and murmur a thank you. Arya rolls her eyes in response, but Sandor notices a small smirk upon the young girl’s face. 

Kneeling in front of the chest, Sansa rummages through it until she finds what she is looking for and pulls it out from among the clothes. She returns to him with a small pile that is obviously comprised of cloth in her hands, and he cannot help but wonder exactly what she intends. His breath catches when he notices a familiar black and yellow pattern upon the item on top. 

Sansa pauses when she returns, one hand idly stroking the cloth under her hand as she thinks of what to say. 

“I suggested to Robb that now that you are the head of your House and in charge of your own men that your banner should fly with the rest.” She tells him quietly, “He agreed and charged me with making one for you.”

He is overwhelmed for a moment as she holds out the piece of cloth tentatively, looking at him as if seeking some sign of approval. He covers the hands that hold it with his large ones, looking down at the sigil of his house so lovingly stitched.

“This is…” he begins to say, the words never coming out. A younger son of a minor house, descended from the kennel masters of the Lannisters. He would never have expected a Stark of Winterfell to believe his banner worthy of flying amongst the rest. 

“Your brother may have disgraced this banner,” she continues quietly at his continued silence, “But you should be proud of your legacy. I know that you will reclaim the honour of your house.”

It is too much for him and he gathers her to him, the cloth forgotten as he crushes her to him, pressing his face into the crook of her neck where he places a lingering kiss. He feels her shudder at the sensation and she turns her face to kiss him properly, welcomingly. From the corner of his eye he sees Arya throw up her hands and turn to face the tent wall once more. 

He kisses Sansa tenderly this time, softly, and he hopes that it might make up for his lack of words. He has never been good at expressing himself and he wishes that she might know when he shows her instead. 

Finally he steps back, his hands resting upon her shoulders as he looks down at her. 

“It is sweetly stitched, little bird.” He tells her, and hopes that she might understand. He gestures at the now slightly crushed pile of cloth she still holds. “And what else have you sewn?”

“I have made you a surcoat with your sigil as well,” she tells him, “In truth I stitched it while you were away to comfort myself. There are two tunics as well that are ready, and…” she holds the pile of cloth out to him and he takes it, gripping it tightly.

“And?” he asks her, unable to look away when her gaze is upon him in such a way, shy and adoring and nothing that he will ever grow accustomed to. 

She takes a step forward to close the distance between them once more, placing her own hands on top of his this time. Sansa looks down briefly as if to conquer some nervousness before she meets his gaze once again.

“And I have begun work on two cloaks… it will take some time to make them, for I can only sew once I know that everyone is asleep… perhaps it might take months, but they will be ready when… when the time comes.”

He understands immediately what she is trying to tell him, and it makes him love her all the more. “Aye, little bird, when the time comes they’ll be ready, as will we.” He tells her seriously.

He had never imagined that he would drape a cloak around any woman’s shoulders, let alone hers. The thought alone is enough to get him through the next few months until the time comes. 

Keeping a tight hold on the items she’s given him with one hand, he reaches out the other to touch her cheek, and then her hair before leaning down to kiss her one last time before he leaves. 

“We’ll be at Moat Cailin by tomorrow evening, and you’ll see the banner flying.” He assures her, “You’ll be safe near the baggage train, your brother will be assigning good men to protect you and I’ll come to find you once the battle’s done with.”

She nods, trepidation in her expression as she thinks on it, but she is too brave to speak her fears to him. 

Glancing towards the back of a tent he can’t help a smirk as he sees that Arya is still facing the wall. 

“Glad to see you’re such a fast learner, brat. I’m leaving now, so you can turn back around.” 

Grumbling and still stabbing at her sewing, Arya does so, just in time to see him once again lean in to kiss her older sister. 

He can’t help but laugh darkly as he leaves, hearing her voice her outrage. 

“I swear Sansa, I can believe it of him but I never thought you were so disgusting…”

She’d better get used to it, there’s still months to go before they reach Winterfell.

** 

Sansa can spy the towers of Moat Cailin in the distance, but where they wait near the baggage train there is nothing else that can be seen. Before she and Arya were ushered away by their mother they had briefly seen the beginnings of the siege preparations being put in place. The Ironborn who are occupying the Towers had let fly some arrows on their arrival before realizing that the host was situated beyond their range, now Robb has set the men to building siege engines in full view of the enemy. 

Sansa had looked for Sandor’s banner and spotted it, making a note of where his forces are situated. He is located to the right and towards the back for now, though she knows that when the Greatjon’s forces make their move it is his task to help secure one of the Towers. Even though she knows his skill in battle she cannot help but worry anyway, just as she worries for Robb.

While the siege takes place she and Arya have been stationed at a short distance down the road from the main battle host, together with the baggage train. A tent has been set up for their use but they have chosen to sit outside in what sunshine there is while it lasts. Sansa has brought some embroidery intended for her mother out to while away the time, for lack of anything better to do. The twenty knights that Robb has assigned to protect them stand around restlessly, some sparring to pass the time. Her brother has taken no chances in case the siege goes badly, there are horses saddled and ready in case they must make their escape.

“What on earth are we supposed to do for 3 days while we wait for the battle?” Arya grumbles, “And I don’t see why we can’t be closer to the action.”

“You know that our brother worries for us,” Sansa reminds her mildly, “As does Mother. In a way he is being wise, we are his heirs for now and he knows that we must be protected in case the battle goes badly.”

Arya sighs, “Why are Mother and Talisa allowed to remain with the host though? I would have loved to see the final attack when it occurs. You can’t tell me that you wouldn’t like to as well.”

“I would like to,” Sansa admits, “It is very difficult to have to wait here and wonder what is happening but I have had enough experience of it to be used to it by now. I suppose Mother has attended enough of Robb’s battles by now that he would not think of forbidding her and Talisa...” she stops suddenly, seeing the topic of their conversation approaching, “It seems as if Talisa will be joining us.”

Arya looks up surprised as their goodsister rides up, accompanied by three more knights who wait to see her safely dismounted before leaving. Sansa calls for an extra chair to be brought from inside the tent and Talisa waits for it to be put in place before taking her seat, sighing slightly as if weary.

“So you’ve been exiled too,” Arya comments glumly, “Couldn’t you convince Robb to let you stay?”

Talisa smiles softly, “I did try, but he made several very sound arguments and in the end I had to agree that it was for the best.” 

“Well we are glad to have you with us,” Sansa tells her goodsister politely, “We have not had a chance to get to know one another properly since you usually ride with the main host.”

Talisa makes a small grimace, “I have a feeling that we may have much more time together in future, I am likely to be relegated to riding with the baggage train with you from now on.”

“Why?” Arya asks her, before she seems to realize how impolite that sounds. “We’re happy to have you here of course, especially since apparently you saved me from marrying a Frey.”

Sansa tries to stifle a laugh, remembering a long ago conversation with Arya about precisely that. Talisa looks confused for a moment before she realizes what Arya is talking about and gives her an amused smile.

“I am glad that my marriage to Robb could be of service to you.” She replies with an amused smile as Sansa hides her own grin. “As to why I shall be joining you, Robb is concerned about my safety.”

“Why now?” Arya asks bluntly, “You’ve ridden in the main host all this time while we were at risk from Lannisters and Freys.”

Talisa seems to consider something for a moment and then smiles, “We had hoped to delay announcing it until a better time, but you would have found out soon. I am with child.”

Arya stares at her as if unable to believe it while Sansa claps her hands in delight. “Oh that is wonderful!” she tells Talisa, “Just think Arya, we shall be aunts!”

Aunts and no longer Robb’s heirs; It shall be a relief to be out of the line of succession, the responsibility has weighed heavily on her as she has made her plans. 

Arya grins, “It’ll be just like when Rickon was born!” she comments before sobering, remembering the little brother that is now lost to them. 

“I hope that we shall have many children, and that they might one day help to make up for the losses that you have all suffered.” Talisa comments quietly, “It would have perhaps been better to delay pregnancy until we were back at Winterfell, but I know the importance of giving your brother an heir.” She gives a small, wry smile. “Your mother has reminded me of it many times since we married.”

“I only hope that you will not be too uncomfortable as we travel,” Sansa comments sincerely. “But I suppose Mother is right, if something should happen…”

She does not want to think of it, not after all that they have lost already. 

A thought suddenly occurs to her about what Talisa said, and struggling to stifle a blush she turns back to face her goodsister, lowering her voice. “You… you spoke of delaying pregnancy. Is such a thing possible, to… to do your wifely duties and yet… that it does not occur simply for bearing children?”

Arya gives Sansa a sharp warning look while Talisa gives her a considering one. 

“Yes it is possible, there are both potions such as Moon Tea and ways of…” Talisa looks at her goodsister curiously, “Has your mother or Septa ever spoken to you of these things? I know that you were to be married, before…”

Sansa blushes, and shakes her head. She knows that it will be months before there is even a possibility of them marrying, and it would not be proper to consider… to consider things like this before they do. Yet even as she thinks of the impropriety of it, she remembers the feeling of Sandor’s lips on hers, of his hands on her hips, of the heat in his gaze whenever he looks at her. He wants more than what she can currently give him, she knows it even if she does not truly know what it is that he wants. As guilty as her shamelessness makes her feel, even she has begun to wish for more time alone with him, to explore the possibility of… of more. 

“Never in any detail, I do not really know about how these things… When Winterfell has been put to rights I expect that Robb will want to make an alliance for me with some lord, I would like to have some knowledge before he does. I do not wish to… to go to my marriage ignorant.” Her expression hardens before she can truly realize it, “I have had enough of being kept ignorant and simply expected to comply.”

She remembers Joffrey’s words of putting a babe in her once she bled, and of the men who would have harmed her that day in the riot and she cannot help her fear a little. Sandor would never hurt her nor allow her to be hurt, she knows this, trusts in it more than she trusts in anything and yet she cannot help but be afraid of the unknown, of what she does not yet understand.

Talisa accepts her explanation and gives her a comforting smile, “We shall have a proper conversation about it before you are married,” she assures Sansa, “For now I am not certain how much I should say to you considering that you are both innocent, but yes, children do not always need to result from such an act.”

Sansa is not so very innocent, not really, but she feels incredibly ill-prepared for what she knows that Sandor wants, for what she has begun to want, for what happens between a man and a woman. 

“But it does not need to be awful?” Sansa asks, unable to help herself. “Or… or painful?” 

What she has experienced with Sandor so far has certainly not made her think that it will be. The feelings that arise within her when he kisses her or touches her are different from anything she has experienced before and she wishes she knew what was meant to happen next. From the gossip that she has overhead from the women at court in King’s Landing, it is a normal thing for a man to have needs of that sort. She wishes that she might know what to do, what the right thing to do is. She has been brought up to believe that a lady preserves her maidenhead for her husband, that it is wrong to do otherwise, but Sansa already knows that she will marry him. Surely she is worth more than that… surely he would not think less of her if they were to lie together, he who loves her so fiercely. 

“No, no it does not need to be awful or painful, though at first there will be some pain.” Talisa reassures her, “When the time comes I am sure that Robb will marry you to a man who is gentle and kind, and who will be good to you in the marriage bed.”

“And there are ways to know whether you will become pregnant or not?” Sansa asks quietly, still trying to fight a blush. “Or… or to avoid… it is just that I would prefer to wait for some time after my marriage, to bear a child, until…”

Talisa looks almost amused as she surveys Sansa’s embarrassment and Arya’s look of growing horror. “Well yes, there are ways to be with your husband that will not result in pregnancy and potions that can be taken, but I think Lady Catelyn would be dreadfully unhappy with me if I went into detail on them now. We will talk about this once you are betrothed to someone.”

Arya clears her throat and they both turn to look at her, Sansa notices that her little sister’s face is a mixture of horror and curiousity. 

“But then you didn’t know these things until you were married, did you?” she asks Talisa pointedly, “Because people don’t do these things until they’re married.”

There is a moment when Sansa is sure that her goodsister is going to blush, as she falters for a reply. “Well… of course, this should be known only after marriage.”

Sansa has a sudden feeling that it was perhaps not after marriage that Talisa learned such things. 

As Talisa clears her throat and turns to ask one of the guards for some water, Sansa stifles a squeal as Arya stamps on her foot.

“Do not even think for one minute about doing anything that may or may not get you pregnant until you’re married.” Arya hisses at her, “And certainly not in our tent. I have to sleep there and I’m not just going to face the wall and…”

“Arya, no!” Sansa whispers, mortified, “I would never think of it! I was just wondering, for after…”

Talisa turns back to them with a curious look on her face and seems about to ask them what they are speaking of when there is a sudden commotion from the direction of the baggage train. 

As they turn to look in that direction, a riderless horse gallops past them and up the road towards Moat Cailin. Sansa’s heart catches in her throat as it thunders past them and she sees the rider being dragged along the ground, his foot caught in the stirrup and an arrow protruding from his chest. It is one of the scouts that Robb had posted to warn them of anyone approaching from the south, she realizes. 

For a long moment they stand still in shock before one of the knights begins to yell commands. 

“On your horses!” he screams at the rest of them, “Get the ladies to safety!”

Even as she struggles against the instinct to freeze in fear, Arya is already dragging her up from her chair and over to the horses as Sansa catches Talisa’s hand and pulls her with them. 

She can suddenly see the men approaching, about thirty of them and rapidly growing closer as they ride around the baggage wagons. 

Everything is chaos around them as the men assigned to guard them rush into positions of protection. Seeing one man already mounted and ready, Sansa turns to yell at him as she tries to scramble onto her own horse. 

“Ride for help!” she screams at him, her voice hoarse with fear. 

Without any reply the man wheels his horse around and sets his heels to it, riding towards the main host as quickly as possible. 

Arya is already mounted and ready to go, but Sansa has delayed a few seconds too long in order to send the knight for reinforcements and as she finds her seat on the saddle the armed men break upon the scene, swords already drawn and easily cutting down three men who had not yet found their horses.

The men wear no insignia, but Sansa recognises them anyway by their unfortunate faces. 

The Freys have finally come to avenge the insult done to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this update we should be back to a weekly updating schedule! Thank you for sticking with me while I battled with my assignments and for all the messages of support! And yeah, how bout those Freys, eh?


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

“Kill the guards and grab the Stark girls quickly!” the man in charge of party yells, his eyes upon them as he brandishes his sword. Sansa does not know his name but she recognises that he is a Frey, knows it looking upon his weasel-like face. Their guards scramble into place, shields up to defend but Sansa knows with a sudden shot of fear that it will not be enough. These are good men but not good enough and they are outnumbered. Robb never expected an attack from this quarter, the best fighters have been assigned to the siege. 

Oh gods, Sandor, if only he were here…

“Are you without honour, Ser?” She calls out, her voice breaking in her fear. “We are ladies, and defenseless. Whatever your quarrel is with my brother, if you are honourable men you will not take out your anger upon us.”

“My, aren’t you a pretty one and chatty too?” The leader cackles, “Maybe I’ll claim you for myself when we’re back to the Twins. Well, well, who’s this with you? Looks like the foreign cunt the Young Wolf broke his promises for.”

Even as Sansa glances behind her at Talisa and Arya edges her horse slightly forward, one hand on Needle’s hilt, the man laughs again. “Extra gold for the man that kills the foreign bitch,” he tells his men, “But make sure the Stark girls are unharmed, we need them.”

As simple as that and the enemy forces spring to life, their horses dashing forward to clash with the Stark soldiers. Sansa fights to keep herself from freezing, desperately reaching out a hand to Arya as they see the lines in front of them begin to break. 

“We must protect Talisa, get her away from here.” She tells her sister urgently, “They won’t kill us, we can be rescued, but her…” 

Arya nods grimly and Sansa looks back once more to see that Talisa’s normally confident face is pale with fear as she looks around desperately for a way out. They are surrounded on all sides, but at that moment Sansa sees a gap appear as one of their own knights is cut down and a Frey man rides towards them. 

“Go!” Sansa screams at her goodsister as Arya rides forward to block the man’s path, Needle already in hand, Sansa maneuvering her own horse to cut off another man. Talisa is motionless in fright but Sansa turns to hit her horse hard upon its quarters, making it dash forward with all speed. 

“You stupid little bitch!” she hears from one of the men nearby, even as two of the Frey men break off to give chase to Talisa’s horse. Sansa prays that her goodsister will be quick enough, that she can make it to the main host before they can catch up to her. Another knight falls, this one just in front of her and Sansa screams as the Frey who had been fighting him reaches her. 

“Sansa, dagger!” Arya yells from her position somewhere nearby, and more from instinct than any real skill, Sansa draws the dagger from the sheath on her wrist and slashes blindly at her attackers face. He yells and reels back from her, blood dripping from a long cut down his cheek. 

“You little whore, I’ll make you pay for that!” He screams, reaching for her once again only to be stopped by one of their remaining guards burying his sword into the man’s back. 

With complete terror, Sansa realizes that there are only seven men left fighting on their side, and only very few dead from the Freys and their men. Seeing another man charging towards her, she kicks her horse’s sides, maneuvering out of the way and ducking to avoid his hand as he tries to grab her. 

“Arya!” she calls out, trying desperately to make her way towards her sister.

“You won’t be getting away that easily,” The leader laughs as he approaches her himself. 

Sansa brandishes her dagger, gripping it tightly in fear but the man laughs and smashes his shield against her hand, causing her to drop it. 

“Lost your claw now have you, she-wolf?” he asks her mockingly and grabs her arm, beginning to pull her from her saddle and onto his horse. 

Sandor… Sandor… through a haze of panic, Sansa can almost hear his voice, advising her about how to protect herself, the importance of the element of surprise. 

With sudden clarity she remembers the dagger strapped to her ankle and twisting away from the Frey she bends down, using her free arm to grab it. Before he can realize what is happening she slashes at him, cutting deeply into the flesh of his arm and making him let go of her in shock. 

She urges her horse forward, trying to get to Arya so that they might fight together, the second dagger still in her hand, but the man grabs at her, catching her sleeve and dragging her backwards.

“You’ll pray that we’d had orders to kill you once I’m done with you!” He screams, “You’ll pray for death!”

She twists, trying to escape him, trying to wait until the right moment to strike so that he can’t knock away this dagger too. She has never been so terrified in her entire life, and she knows that she cannot allow the men to take them from here, she knows what they will do to her and Arya if they do.

She can hear Arya screaming out profanities from where she fights, calling the men who have attacked them all sorts of names. All Sansa can hope is that Arya can get away, that she at least can be safe. 

Sansa will die if she has to rather than let them have her, but oh gods, Sandor, Sandor, if only… 

As the man yanks on her hair and grabs her arm again, Sansa screams for him, screams Sandor’s name, a prayer to any god that might be listening. 

Perhaps she really is about to die, because she swears that she can hear his voice yelling above the din of battle, and as Sansa feels the man who has a hold on her let her go as if in shock she scrambles back onto her horse properly, urging it forward and towards Arya again.

“The Hound!” she hears Arya scream hoarsely, “He’s going to kill every last one of you, you stinking sons of whores! He’s going to cut off your heads and pull out your guts, each and every one of you, you craven weasels!”

Sansa turns back, dagger in hand and ready to stab the leader in the eye if he tries to touch her again, determined not to lose her one remaining weapon. As she catches sight of the figure approaching at a frantic pace she can only to let out a thankful sob, almost falling from her saddle in her relief even as she continues to grip her dagger tightly.

Because riding down upon the man, screaming with a blind fury as if he were the Stranger himself, is Sandor. Sansa sees the stark terror on the Frey’s face as he tries to raise his sword, only to be cut almost in half as Sandor’s sword comes down upon him.

“Get yourself and Arya to safety!” Sandor yells at her, barely pausing before turning to hunt down his next prey.

Despite knowing she should do as he asks, Sansa cannot help herself from watching him fight, even as ten of his men ride up to join him, riding into the fray. He attacks his enemies with a rage that she has not seen in months, a rage that she had previously thought reserved only for his brother as he cleaves into their bodies, separating limbs or killing them quickly with vicious strokes.

Frozen in place, Sansa’s trance is broken only when Arya rides over to join her, Needle still grasped tightly in one hand, her knuckles white. Sansa wipes her remaining dagger on her skirt before replacing it in the wrist sheath and reaches out to grab her sister’s other hand.

“I thought we were dead, I thought they were going to take us, and… and…” Arya stammers, “I think I killed two of them, maybe three, but there were so many and…”

“You did so well,” Sansa tells her sister, “You were so brave, I didn’t know what to do, I… I lost my other dagger, he knocked it from my hand, I thought that it was over, that…”

She looks back to see that the tide of the battle has turned, the last of the Freys attempting to flee as Sandor calls out orders for his men to pursue them before he wheels his horse around, riding over to them before jumping down from the big destrier’s back and closing the remaining distance between them. 

Sansa sees that his face is pale beneath his scars, the fear more noticeable in his eyes now that the rage is fading. 

“You’re alright now, you’re alright. I’ve got you.” He says as he reaches up for her to help her down, and she does not know whether he is trying to reassure her or himself. 

She puts her hands on his shoulders and tries to dismount but she can’t stop shaking or find the strength to move, and taking another step forward Sandor grabs her around the waist and lifts her off, crushing her to him as she begins to sob. He grips her so tightly that she’ll be surprised if there’s no bruises from it the next day, murmuring words into her hair that she can’t quite hear. 

“Never again,” he says finally, still gripping her tightly as she continues to sob. “I swear I’ll kill every single one of those cocksucking whoresons of Freys that I can get my hands on, I swear it on every single one of your fucking gods. I’ll burn their castle to the fucking ground and wipe out every single one of them.”

“I thought of you,” Sansa sobs, lifting her head to look up at him, “I tried to remember what you taught me, and I stabbed one of them and got away from him, but the next one, he knocked the dagger from my hand, and I couldn’t get away. If you hadn’t come…”

“I won’t let anybody hurt you again,” he swears fiercely, still gripping her tightly and she can read the fear in his eyes clearly now. “I swear I’ll kill every last one of them, nobody will hurt you again.”

Collecting himself, he moves away from her finally, one hand still gripped tightly around her forearm, and uses the other to reach up and grab Arya around the waist, lifting her down from her horse easily with one arm.

“You did well, little wolf.” He tells Arya seriously, “I saw you fighting as I rode up, I’m sure you did for at least four of them.”

“Three maybe,” Arya says, sounding as if she is in a slight daze. “I’ve never… not like that, not with all of them at once…”

“Wipe your sword now,” Sandor tells Arya gently, a firm hand on her shoulder. “You don’t want the blood of those whoresons to rust your blade.”

Arya nods shakily and ripping off a torn portion of her dress, cleans the blade quickly before putting it back in its sheath. 

Spotting his men returning from their pursuit, Sandor finally lets go of Sansa’s arm and she reaches out to hug Arya, embracing her tightly. 

“All dead.” One man reports with a grim satisfaction as he rides up, “None escaped.”

“Talisa!” Sansa suddenly gasps, “Is she safe? She was being pursued…”

“I cut them down on the way here, she’ll be back in the host by now.” Sandor remarks, reaching out to grip Sansa’s shoulder. “You’re alright aren’t you? They didn’t get a chance to hurt either of you?”

Sansa glances over at Arya who nods, “We’re fine,” she reassures him, “He smashed his shield into my hand, I fear the bruising will be bad but apart from that we are unharmed. They meant to take us alive.”

Sandor spat on the ground, “I can guess what they meant to do with you too.” He comments darkly, before turning back to her once again. “Seven hells, when I saw that riderless horse appear, I…”

He is interrupted as Robb rides up with twenty more men, Grey Wind running alongside them. Their brother vaults off his horse and strides forward, pulling them both into an embrace. 

“You’re alright?” he asks them both shakily, “I should have known better, that the Freys would plan something, I should’ve kept a larger guard for you or known to keep you closer to the main host.”

“We’re alright, Robb.” Sansa reassures him, “You couldn’t have known. They wished to take us alive and so we managed to hold them off until help arrived. Arya killed a few, I… I could not do much but I did my best. I lost my other dagger though, I don’t know…” 

She feels dangerously close to tears again, and knows that she is close to collapsing from the shock of it all as Robb hugs them both closer. 

Sansa tries to respond to Robb’s worried queries as she watches Sandor walk away towards where the battle occurred, clapping one of his men on the shoulder and having a brief word with another before he strides on, leaning down to check bodies as he passes them. 

“They wanted to kill Talisa,” she hears Arya say and turns back to the conversation, “But she’s alright, isn’t she?”

“Luckily Clegane saw the scout’s horse even before the man you sent to warn us arrived and left with a group of his men or I don’t know what would have happened.” Robb comments, shaking his head. “I only found out when Talisa reached the host, she said that he cut down both the men pursuing her without pause and kept going. If they had gotten to her…”

The fear in her brother’s face is apparent and he shakes his head as if to rid himself of it, “Thank the gods that you are all alright, I shall never allow anything like this to happen again.” he swears fervently.

Sansa is about to say something in reply when she feels the slight touch of a hand on her back and knows that Sandor has returned. 

She turns to face him, fixing her eyes upon his face to catch his, hoping to reassure him that she truly is alright. 

“Thought you might be missing this one,” Sandor announces gruffly, aware that in her brother’s presence he cannot display his own worry or relief. He holds out her other dagger, the blade already clean and Sansa extends one shaking hand to take it from him, clutching it as if it is life itself. 

Arya gives a sudden almost hysterical laugh and they all turn to face her, wondering what could have possibly set her off. 

Arya turns towards Sansa then, reaching out a shaking hand towards her. “Do you remember, Sansa? ‘The Stark Sisters and their Blades’, maybe they really will make a song about us now.”

Not sure whether she wants to laugh or cry at the way the long ago joke has come true, Sansa settles for both.

**

Sandor lifts both girls back onto their horses quickly and deftly before directing one of his men to take their reins. Sansa tries to catch his eye once again but all she receives is a nod in reply, they both know the dangers of revealing too much while others are present, no matter how badly she aches to be comforted by him. 

“I thank you,” Sansa hears Robb say to Sandor before they set off. “Without your quick thinking I might have lost both my sisters and my wife today. You shall be duly rewarded.”

“Aye well, I didn’t do it for any reward. Killing these cravens was reward enough for me.” Sandor replies gruffly, “What do you want done with the bodies?”

“Leave the Freys and their men for the crows.” Robb remarks coldly, “When Walder Frey sends men to look for them, let them see the results of their treachery. We shall bury our own dead.”

“I’ll have some of the men see to it.” Sandor rasps, and with a final nod to Robb walks away to see it done. 

Sansa allows herself to be led towards the siege camp in a daze, still attempting to overcome the shock of the day’s events. She barely registers it as Robb helps them both down from their horses, as they are led to their mother’s tent to rest until one can be prepared for them, as their mother rushes up to embrace them both, crying and hugging them tightly. Hearing about the attack she had feared them dead or taken, and her relief is tempered by a renewed grief as she remembers the loss of her two younger sons. 

Lady Catelyn pours them both some wine and insists they drink it to take the edge off the shock, but Sansa can barely taste it as it goes down her throat. Their mother fusses over them until the tent is prepared then leads them there, helping to settle them inside. 

It is already growing dark and once they are both lying upon their pallets and furs, she kisses them both on the forehead with instructions to rest and leaves, telling them that she is going to check upon Talisa. 

For a long moment there is silence, before Arya finally speaks.

“I thought we were going to die,” she whispers to Sansa from across the tent, “I kept thinking of everything I hadn’t done yet, of everything that I would regret. We would never have seen home again, I would’ve never seen Nymeria again, the last time I saw Gendry I told him he was an idiot. He is an idiot, but still if I died… I thought that maybe…”

Sansa gets up and goes over to her sister’s pallet, lying down beside her and hugging her. “They wouldn’t have killed us, not if they could avoid it.” She comments, “They meant to take us back to the Twins.”

“What would they have done to us?” Arya asks her, the fear obvious in her voice.

“You know what they would’ve done.” Sansa replies, her own voice quiet and shaking slightly. “What they would’ve wanted to do… If they killed Talisa and took us then they would control Robb’s only heirs, they would’ve…”

Arya nods suddenly, an indication that she understands and doesn’t want to hear anymore. 

They’re silent again, holding each other tighter and it is some time before Arya speaks again. 

“When I saw Sandor riding up… I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad. I knew he’d kill them all, I knew he’d keep us safe. Did you see the looks on their faces? They all knew they were going to die as soon as they saw him.”

It is the first time that Arya has referred to him by his proper name, and Sansa cannot help but notice it. 

“He won’t let anything happen to us, either of us.” Sansa murmurs, “He swore that he’d keep me safe, he’ll keep you safe too. He’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt us.”

Arya reaches out and grips Sansa’s hand tightly, and in that moment Sansa knows that her sister finally understands, that she now knows what it means to love someone. 

“I’m very glad that you have him, and that he loves you.” Arya tells her earnestly, “He’ll keep you happy and he’ll protect you. He’s a good man, I won’t taunt him anymore. He can kiss you as often as he likes without any complaint from me.”

Sansa laughs softly and kisses her sister on the top of the head. “Sleep now,” she tells Arya, “In the morning we’ll go and check on Talisa, and then see the siege. We’ll look for his banner and we’ll watch him and Robb when the attack takes place the next day.”

Her sister nods sleepily and Sansa returns to her own pallet, wrapping herself in her furs and allowing sleep to claim her.

She dreams of running, trying to evade hands, blood on her dress and a dagger in her hands. She runs but can’t escape them, grasping fingers reaching out to clutch her dress. She dreams that she tries to stab the arms that grab at her, only to have the blade deflected off their skin.

She wakes up with a strangled scream upon the lips and feels strong hands grasp her arms, lifting her up.

“I’ve got you,” He rasps, and she almost sobs in relief. “You’re safe, there’s nobody that can hurt you.”

“I dreamt that…” Sansa starts to say, and then lifts a hand to find his face in the dark as her eyes slowly adjust to the light. “What are you doing here?”

“I came in to check on you, to see…” She can feel him shake his head even if she can’t see it. “I wanted to see you safe and well for myself.”

Shaking slightly, the vestiges of the dream still upon her, she leans forward to rest her head on his shoulder where he sits beside her on her pallet above the furs.

“I’m alright,” She whispers into his neck, “You won’t let anything happen to me.”

He lifts the lower half of her body then, one arm under her legs, and places her on his lap then wraps his arms around her. 

They sit like that, her head tucked into the crook of his neck, his cheek resting on her hair, until both of their breathing begins to slow and her heartbeat returns to normal. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” He tells her, raw pain evident in his voice. “If you were taken from me…”

“I won’t be,” She tries to reassure him, lifting her face so that she can rub her cheek against his, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You won’t let anyone take me.”

“I won’t,” He swears, his arms tightening around her. “I’ll kill anyone who tries. Anyone. If anything happened to you…”

“It won’t,” She whispers, and kisses him softly. “You won’t let anything happen to me.”

He drops his face to her neck, nuzzling her gently, raising one hand to stroke her hair as he does so. His scarred cheek is rough against her skin and she realizes that the sensation is now a comforting one to her. She can’t help the feeling that he’s somehow trying to imprint himself onto her, to mark her as his. She stays quiet and soft in his arms, one hand pressed upon his cheek and the other clutching his waist, allowing them both to take comfort in their closeness. 

He gives one long exhale of breath and loosens his grip upon her, scooping her into his arms again and laying her down on the bed. 

“I’d best be going,” He says as he leans over her, “If anyone saw me coming or going from here I’ll say that I heard you scream and came in to check, but it’s not safe to stay for too long. I’ll see you after the siege now.”

She nods, hoping that he can see it in the dark and reaches out to draw him down to her. When he kisses her, he is more tender than he has ever been before, almost as if he is afraid of hurting her. 

“I love you,” she whispers as he stands to leave, one hand still clutched in his. 

“As I love you, little bird.” He replies, and then with a last squeeze of her hand he is gone.

She closes her eyes and fixes his image in her mind as she drifts off to sleep. 

There is nothing to fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update since I left it on a cliffhanger ;)


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Two days later, the Greatjon and his men arrive on schedule along with Howland Reed and some of his crannogmen and the battle finally occurs. The blasted Ironborn had been so intent on the enemy camped upon their Southern doorstep that they never even thought to consider an attack from the North. Sandor can’t help a vindictive chuckle as he thinks about it. This is not their land and they had no idea of the Reeds and their secret ways through the swamp. They should have stayed by the ocean, where they could keep their feet wet and where it would be easier for them to flee. The Ironborn are not conquerors, they raid and leave like the cravens they are. The men left behind at Moat Cailin might have been fierce fighters, but they had no idea about strategies needed for drawn out conflicts.

Sandor’s men performed well in the battle, with only two lost in the end. The Gatehouse Tower had been secured soon after the fighting began and ultimately the day was won in less than an hour due to the element of surprise. Sandor himself sustained only a few scratches and a collection of bruises, nothing serious enough to even need bandaging.

At the end of the battle there had been three of their enemy left alive, and he had believed them destined to be prisoners or executed, before King Robb let them go.

“Tell the turncoat, Theon Greyjoy, that his treachery shall be avenged.” Robb Stark had told them bitterly before sending them on their way. “When the time comes, I’ll cut off his head myself to repay him for my brothers’ deaths.”

It is a fair enough notion, and Sandor can only hope that the day will come when Robb Stark is able to do so. He understands from Sansa that Robb Stark had loved the Greyjoy boy like a brother. Sandor knows well that of all treacheries and cruelties, the ones inflicted by those considered kin leave the worst scars.

He’s seen Sansa only once since the end of the siege and that too at a distance. They’re at too close quarters with everyone else crowded into Moat Cailin and it’s better not to tempt fate by doing something stupid. He’ll hope for a moment alone with her once they’re back on the road.

They’re to camp here only two days before proceeding North, not wanting to risk the chances of a larger Frey host attacking them once they realize their men aren’t coming back with the prize they were meant to claim. Sandor doesn’t believe that it will come to an outright attack, Walder Frey prefers to try and win by tricks and treachery, he will not dare to fight them upon an open field. Of the men killed, there were more than a few of Walder Frey’s kin; Rhaegar Frey, Black Walder Frey, Raymund Frey and Whalen Frey among others. In the end though there’s still dozens of the fucking cunts of Freys living and he can’t help but wish they’d sent more for him to cut down. 

In the time since the attack he has seen King Robb only in company with his lords and bannermen, but now the day after Moat Cailin was retaken, he has been called into the King’s company, apparently to speak alone. 

He wonders what Sansa would make of it, whether this is any of her doing in what he understands is a subtle campaign to make him more acceptable to her family. He wishes her luck in it, no matter how much he believes it’s destined to fail. He has grown to enjoy his position here, the way that he is treated by the other men. For the first time in his life he has been accorded something akin to respect, and he would prefer not to lose it if he can help it. His little bird would also be the happier for it if they didn’t need to be estranged from her family, if they could settle nearby. Gods know he’d do damn near fucking anything to make her happy. 

When he calls out at the tent entrance he is ushered in and asked to sit, across the table from where Robb Stark has his own seat. The King of the North dismisses the knight who is attending him, waiting until he is gone to turn to Sandor.

Sandor sits upright and still in his chair, remaining impassive despite the quizzical look that Robb Stark is currently giving him, as if he is trying to work something out.

“It seems that I become more and more indebted to you, Clegane.” The King of the North finally says, “First you bring back my sister, then make the Riverlands safe by disposing of the Mountain, and now you have saved not only my sisters but also my wife and future heir.”

Sandor does not respond, instead he tilts his head noncommittally. There is more coming, there must be, there always is.

“I have grown to trust you and to value you,” Robb Stark continues, “You’ve proven yourself a good fighter and a capable leader, and I mean to see your services rewarded once we have finished retaking the North.”

“There isn’t a need, but I thank you all the same.” Sandor rasps, but he is glad of it nonetheless. It is what Sansa wanted, it is what she believes would make a difference.

“It shall benefit me also to have a strong bannerman,” Robb replies with a shrug, “And you have more than earned it. I have a mind to give you the lands of House Hornwood, I do not wish them to remain with Ramsey Bolton and I do not entirely trust his father either. House Bolton may resist the move and the lands will need a strong Lord.” Robb waved a hand suddenly, “It is not yet decided, and in the end it may be another place, perhaps in the Riverlands instead, but I wished you to know that I do mean to make you a Lord and settle lands upon you for your good service.”

“I thank you, Your Grace.” Sandor replies simply. He sees the sense in it, knows that having a man like him close to those whom Robb Stark does not entirely trust is a good idea. Many things he may be considered, but he has always been known for his loyalty, his abandonment of the Lannisters notwithstanding. 

Robb Stark smiles, slightly reserved but nonetheless the image of the just king, he shall serve the North well though he still has some growing up to do. The king pauses before continuing nonchalantly, perhaps too casually.

“With lands and a lordship, it should be easy to find a wife from one of the minor houses.” Robb states, his eyes firmly upon Sandor to see his reaction. “It would please me to have you continue your House and see your children as my bannermen.”

Sandor remains impassive, he waits and watches in turn and gives a noncommittal shrug. “Aye, I suppose so.”

Robb Stark watches him, looking for something, and Sandor thinks he has a damn fucking good idea of what it is. Somehow the young king has figured something out. 

“I know that you came to us as my lady sister’s sworn shield, and have served ably in that capacity, but it would not be appropriate for you to continue in that role now, given my future plans for you.” Robb continues, “I will assign more men to protect the ladies, to ensure that there is no chance of a repeat of the attack by the Freys.”

Sandor nods, making another noncommittal noise. He understands well enough where all this is headed now. 

“Before reaching Winterfell, I plan to send you and your men to Torrhen’s Square with the Tallharts and their bannermen to retake it and expel the Ironmen back to the ocean.” Robb continues, “You may expect to separate from the rest of the host in about two weeks time. After that when you’ve returned to Winterfell we shall regroup to attack the Ironborn at Deepwood Motte. The security of the North is of utmost importance to us and it shall help to win the other bannermen’s favour when I eventually bestow lands and a title on you.”

Sandor nods, still silent. He knows that it is true, knows that Robb Stark needs to consolidate his hold on the North and drive out the invaders if there is any hope of standing against the Lannisters or even the Freys. Knows that if he is to be truly be counted as a bannerman then he must earn his place among them, earn their respect. 

But still, it will not be enough.

Robb pauses, and smiles then, though it seems somewhat forced. “Once we have reclaimed the North there will be much more to be done, I shall also need to consider other alliances. Sansa will be of age by then, and though she was reluctant to marry one of the Freys, she shall not refuse when I make her a good match. She has been raised to know her duty.”

And there it is. Her kingly brother has heard something, or seen something, or simply realized something, and he is intent on putting Sandor in his place before the situation can grow any worse. Sandor knows his place, he’s known it since the beginning of all this. You can raise a dog to lordship and even give it lands, but it still won’t be high enough to marry your sister. He had known, and told her many times, but somewhere along the way perhaps he’d let her convince him just a little bit that the minds of her family could be changed. There will be none of that now. If Sandor feels any sense of disappointment, then it is for her rather than him. He had known, after all. He had always known.

“Aye, she’s a proper lady.” Sandor agrees, able to keep his face impassive only from a lifetime of training. If only King Robb knew that his sweet sister was not going to do her duty, was planning to leave, to run away with the man sitting in front of him; for run they must now. He’ll keep his promises and get her to Winterfell first, until then he’ll not let anything be revealed. If King Robb were to find out exactly how deeply the attachment between them is, then Sandor has no doubt that he’d be exiled upon the morrow. There would be no lordships or lands offered then, of that he’s sure. 

“Is that all, Your Grace?” Sandor asks Robb, already standing although he’s yet to be dismissed. He’s heard what he needed to, and none of it a surprise.

Robb Stark nods, his eyes still upon Sandor, waiting for some type of a sign that his suspicion is right. Sandor sure as all hells won’t give him the satisfaction of it.

Leaving the tent he waits until he’s outside to breathe in deeply. He should not feel anything about this, it’s what he expected after all, it’s no surprise to him, and yet… 

He feels an urgent need to seek out Sansa, to tell her, touch her, hear her say yet again that she really will leave with him. She doesn’t deserve that though, doesn’t deserve his doubts when all she’s been is true. If he were go to her now then it would only confirm her brother’s suspicions and perhaps ruin all their plans. He heads in the other direction instead, where he’s made his own camp.

He’s halfway there when he hears a voice calling out his name and turns around to see Arya, a spring in her step and a grin on her face as she hurries to catch up with him. 

“I was just visiting the horses.” She announces, “Are you coming to see us later? We haven’t seen you properly since the siege broke.”

“Would that I could, brat.” He tells her regretfully, casually checking who might be nearby and listening before he continues. “Tell your sister that your kingly brother’s just had a word with me, she’d best be on her guard if he decides to come visit.”

Arya wrinkles up her brow, “What did he say?”

“Nothing very much, but his meaning was clear. Best if I stay away from her for awhile. She’s a clever little bird, she’ll know what to say if he asks her anything. Run along now and give her the message.” 

Arya frowns but nods, one hand on Needle’s hilt as she turns to go. 

Sandor can’t stop his lips from quirking up into a smile. To look at them, the sisters could not seem more dissimilar yet they’re wolves of the same pack and they know how to stick together. When the time comes, at least there will be one family member that Sansa will not lose. 

**

They shall be leaving Moat Cailin the next day, this time heading into the proper North, and Sansa cannot help but be glad for it. It has been two years since she has seen home and the closer they come, the clearer she can picture it in her mind. They shall lay her father’s bones to rest in the crypt in Winterfell where they belong so that he may be at peace before they begin the slow rebuilding process. 

Even as she thinks about home, she wonders how soon she will need to leave it, for leave she now knows she must. Ever since Arya had come running in the previous day, reporting Sandor’s words to her, she has wondered at them and at what her brother knows and what he said. Until she is either able to speak to Sandor or Robb says anything to her, all she will be able to do is wonder and it frustrates her. 

Sighing, she returns to her work, a new dress for Arya since she is rapidly outgrowing all her old ones. Sansa has split the skirts of this one so that it might be worn over breeches, the easier for riding. Her mother may not approve of it but Arya has already given her a warm hug and happy grin once Sansa told her what she intended. 

“Is this what highborn ladies really do all day? Sew?” Arya asks her as they sit together, “Don’t you get bored?”

Sansa smiles, “It’s better than sitting here doing nothing, but no, highborn ladies don’t sew all day. It’s only that here on the road there’s so little else available to do. Once we’re back at Winterfell there’ll be plenty to occupy us as we try to put the castle to rights, though I suspect there’ll be a fair bit of sewing to be done there too…”

She can’t help but laugh at Arya’s groan. 

“Are you regretting your return to us?” Sansa asks her sister knowingly, “There was nobody to make you sew while you were on the run.”

“They thought I was a boy for most of it, well Yoren knew who I was but the others didn’t… then Gendry knew and thought he had to treat me differently, the idiot. Even once everyone knew and we joined the Brotherhood without Banners I was still able to do things. I’m sick of having to sit and wait while the men get to do interesting things.”

“Why don’t you go and watch Sandor train his men and pick up some new sword fighting techniques?” Sansa suggests, “It might be best for now if I don’t see him, but there’s nothing stopping you. I’m sure he won’t mind teaching you a thing or two.”

“Do you really think so?” Arya asks brightly, before making a face. “I doubt that Mother or Robb would approve though. I’m meant to be a lady now.” 

Sansa laughs at that. “You, my little sister, will never be a proper lady, no matter how much anybody tries to make you into one. They can’t tell you not to until they know, so go and enjoy yourself until one of them finds out and forbids it.”

Arya grins, “You’re much more fun than you used to be.” She tells Sansa, “Do you want me to pass on any messages?”

What can she possibly say that could tell him how she feels right now, that could reassure him that no matter what her brother might have said, no matter what might be said to her, that her course is set? She is his, as he is hers, but no matter how strongly he knows it, he still needs assurance from her and she understands that.

“Tell him that I am looking forward to reaching Winterfell and that until then I am busy with my sewing. There are some cloaks that are keeping me busy at the moment, for I wish them to be ready as soon as possible.”

Arya grins at that, knowing the meaning behind the words and stopping only to grab Needle, she is out of the tent as quickly as possible; perhaps fearing that somebody will come to stop her if she doesn’t leave now.

It is only a few minutes later when the tent flap lifts and Sansa sees Robb peer in, smiling when he sees her. 

“I’d hoped to find you,” He comments, walking over to sit in one of the chairs at their small table. Sansa puts aside her work and comes to join him. “Arya’s not here?”

“No, you know how she hates to sit in one place for too long. She’s gone to find something to do.”

They share a knowing smile at that, both used to their sister’s habits. 

“Perhaps it is good that I found you by yourself,” Robb continues, “There were some things that I wished to discuss with you and it is best if we discuss them alone.”

“Do tell me, brother.” Sansa replies calmly, folding her hands in her lap to ensure that they cannot betray her. 

Robb glances around as if taking in the tent décor and Sansa knows that he is gathering his thoughts before he speaks. 

“I have informed Sandor Clegane that he no longer has the role of your sworn shield to uphold,” Robb finally states, “I have bigger plans for him and it is better if he is not distracted from his main duties. I hope you do not mind.”

The last sentence is said almost as an afterthought, something that must be offered but which did not actually enter into any consideration in the decision. Sansa minding or not minding would have no effect upon the outcome.

“No of course not,” Sansa replies calmly, “I had guessed that it would be so once you assigned the men to him. What are you plans for him, if I may ask?”

“I’m sending him and his men to Torrhen’s Square to drive back the Ironborn, they’ll split off from the main host along with the Tallhart men in about two weeks.” Robb announces casually, and Sansa has to stop herself from blanching, force herself to remain calm. She has gotten him back only so very recently and now he is to be sent away from her again. If he were to… but no, he will come back to her safe and sound, she knows it.

“And then?” Sansa asks, with just the right amount of interest to avoid suspicion. 

“We shall regroup and retake Deepwood Motte for the Glovers, and by then he should have won enough respect to ensure that none of my bannermen object when I grant him lands and a lordship.”

Sansa nods, her heart thumping as she allows herself only a small smile of approval. It is the plan she had hoped for, the plan which she had hoped would allow them to marry without estranging her from her family.

“Are you happy?” Robb asks her, his scrutiny suddenly apparent. “You were the one who brought him to me, you have always spoken on his behalf in the past to advance his interests.”

“I am happy,” Sansa affirms, “I have wished that he could find a place of honour among your bannermen and you have granted him that. It is what I wanted.”

“Sansa…” Robb trails off, awkward suddenly and only her slightly elder brother rather than her king. She waits, knowing that she must be careful what she replies to whatever he will ask her next.

“Has Clegane ever behaved inappropriately towards you?” Robb suddenly asks, his eyes piercing hers, his hands flat upon the table. 

Sansa allows herself a start of surprise, her eyes widening. This was not the question she had expected. 

“No, never.” She replies, with utmost honesty. He had always restrained himself, had tried to keep himself away from her until finally it was she that kissed him, she that made it clear that she wished for him. What could be more appropriate than for him to love her, as she loved him in return?

It is not the way her brother would see it of course, but Sansa thinks that it is not a lie, not really.

Robb gives a long, relieved sigh. “I am glad that I did not say anything to him then, I would not want to offend him unless necessary. I wished to check with you first, though it is necessary to take steps to distance him from you anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asks him with a frown, trying to puzzle it out while his last words lead to a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Why would you have thought so and why must he be distanced from me when he has always protected me?”

“I had heard…” Robb shakes his head, “One of the surviving knights from the ambush told me that he thought he saw Clegane embrace you after he had killed the Freys. I knew that he must be mistaken but for the sake of your reputation…”

Sansa wonders if she should laugh or cry, all this time and everything that has happened and that one innocent action of comfort has been their undoing. 

She chooses to frown in consternation, as if offended by the gossip. “Sandor Clegane helped me off my horse after the attack. I was overwrought by the experience and I could not stand by myself so he held me up until I could. I do not appreciate your knights spreading stories about either myself or my… or Clegane.” 

She had been about to say ‘my sworn shield’, but Robb has taken that away from her now. 

Robb nods, as if relieved. “I believed it must have been something like that and told him so, but it is a relief to have it confirmed. We must protect your reputation, which is why it is best if he is distanced from you incase people do talk. Such a thing could never be believed of you of course, but him…”

How easily he dismisses that she might have any feelings of that type for Sandor, that any attachment must be from his side alone. Robb might have recognized Sandor’s worth as a soldier and a leader, but he is still blind to his worth as a man. It saddens Sansa to see how little her brother truly understands, and she wonders if his assumptions are based purely on Sandor or on his estimation of her as well. Does he truly still see her as that young girl, with her head full of tales of knights and ladies and a love for pretty things? Have they spent so little time together since her return that he does not see the changes in her?

Robb and Sansa love each other, it is true, but to her regret they have never had the bond that Arya shared with Jon. They love one another but they do not know each other anymore, not truly. Perhaps they never will now. Sansa is suddenly tired, weary of pretense and of concealing her true feelings from her family.

“Anyway,” Robb continues, “I am glad that that has been resolved. There must be no rumours if I am to make you a good marriage, and I do intend to once we are settled. A marriage that will not only help our family’s cause but one that you will also be happy in.”

“And who do you intend to marry me to now?” Sansa asks him, an edge in her voice. She is tired, so very tired. Tired of waiting, and wondering, and hoping only to find out that it has all been for naught. “Perhaps Ramsey Bolton, now that he’s starved his first wife to death? He shall need another now after all.”

“Sansa…” Robb says, a warning note in his voice. “You are being childish. I know that I made a mistake in considering your marriage to a Frey, but I truly wish for you to be happy and married to a good man.”

“And you shall be the one to pick this good man,” Sansa comments sadly, “No matter whether I might think him good or not.”

“I trust that I know you well enough to pick somebody you would like,” Robb says, his tone gentle now as he reaches out a hand to touch hers. “I have been considering Patrek Mallister for you. He is young and handsome and brave, and a good man. He shall be the lord of Seagard someday and shall keep you well.”

“And Seagard is close enough to the Twins to grant you a strategic alliance against the Freys, should they plot further treachery.” Sansa comments, she has learned her lessons in politics well. 

“Does it follow that because I have chosen a husband for you and that it is done for strategic purposes that you will not be happy with him?” Robb asks her earnestly, “You must marry eventually and you know how it is with highborn families. Marriages are made for alliances rather than love. It occurred that way for mother and father, and yet they came to love one another in time.”

Sansa knows, she knows all too well. It is what she always expected of her life, what she had once dreamed of, knowing that her father would choose a good match for her when the time came. 

In the end he had chosen Joffrey. 

“When you chose to marry for love, abandoned an alliance for it, then why am I not allowed the same right?” Sansa asks her brother, an edge of steel underlying her calm tone. “I tell you now, brother, that I do not want this man; though he may be young, handsome, brave and good. I do not want him and I will not go willingly to such a marriage, arranged without a thought to my choice or wishes. Do not expect it of me.”

Robb lets out an exasperated breath, removing his hand from Sansa’s and sitting back in his chair. “You know that it does not work that way, Sansa. I shall send him to court you, if you like, so that you might come to know him. I shall give you more options, and let you choose from among them if that pleases you, but one day soon you must marry, and according to my wishes. We need strong alliances and your marriage must be a part of that.”

Sandor had told her the truth of it, even as she allowed herself to hope for a different future, to hope that her brother who had made his own marriage for love would allow her to do the same. She knows now that there is one rule for kings and another for their sisters and Sansa wishes that she had allowed herself to believe Sandor rather than hoping in vain. Perhaps it would hurt less now if she had. 

Sansa shakes her head, letting out a soft, almost bitter laugh. “You are truly a King now, Robb. I see it now. I might be your sister but I am also your vassal, to be set aside or disposed of as you wish.”

“Sansa, that is not true. You know that I love you, that I would do anything in my power for you and Arya.” Robb’s voice reflects his hurt, and Sansa wonders how it is that he could truly not understand. 

“And yet my fate must be decided according to my value rather than your love for me,” Sansa continues, more tired than upset now, a deep weariness settling upon her. “I was left in King’s Landing to suffer because I was not judged valuable enough to be traded for Jaime Lannister. Now when I once again have some value, I must strengthen an alliance for you rather than being allowed to marry where I wish.”

Robb winces, he knows the truth of her words, knows his guilt in the matter and that despite their love for one another that this point shall always remain between them. 

“And where is it that you wish to marry?” He asks Sansa, his voice dangerously quiet, changing from the defensive to an attack. “Have you chosen some man whom you wish to be your future husband?”

Sansa shakes her head sadly and stands up from the table, looking down upon Robb who remains seated. “What does it matter, my brother, my king?” She asks him softly, “If I am not to have my choice anyway then what good will come of making it known?”

She walks back to the pallet and picks up her sewing again, a clear sign of dismissal which she hopes he will accept.

Robb stands and his face is such a mixture of hurt and anger and confusion that for a moment she feels sorry for her words and wishes to beg his pardon. Yet everything she has said is true, and she would have him realize the justice of it.

“You have changed, Sansa.” Robb says sadly. “I had thought that you would trust me in this matter. I had hoped that you would be happy with the choice I had thought of for you.”

Sansa looks up at him, and hopes that he will see the truth of it in her eyes. “We have all changed, Robb.” She tells him matter of factly. “I love you as my brother, but I would not have you order me as my King. I have had enough of having my fate decided by others and being expected to comply with a smile.”

Robb turns to leave and then hesitates, turning back once more. “I shall give you more time,” he tells her, “We will not discuss the matter again until we are back at Winterfell and the North has been retaken. At that time I will give you a choice of suitors, and I will expect you to choose from among them.”

He walks out of the tent before she can answer, perhaps to avoid hearing the reply she would’ve given him. 

It does not matter, he would not have truly listened to it regardless.

When Arya arrives back half an hour later, grinning and sweating and calling out for Sansa, she finds her sister sewing her maiden’s cloak with a determined fury, wiping away tears as they fall from her eyes.

“Sansa?” Arya queries gently, walking over to where her sister sits. 

Sansa chokes back a sob and looks up, gripping Arya’s hand tightly when she sits down upon the pallet.

“Do you still wish to come with us when we leave?” Sansa asks, her voice breaking slightly. 

Arya’s only reply is to wrap her arms around Sansa’s shoulders and to hold her as she cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this one, but the good news is that I finally handed in my last assessment piece, yay!


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The battle host pushes on towards Winterfell. 

Almost as if sensing that they are close to home, the horses discover a new burst of energy, making better time than they have in any of the months previous.

Sansa is not certain whether to be glad of it or not, every day closer to Winterfell is a day closer to when Sandor must leave with the Tallharts, and she does not know how long it will take him to return. While it may have been days since she has spoken to him, right now at least she can see him occasionally, now at least she knows where he is and how he is. 

Arya insists on going for walks in the evening once they’ve made camp and their tent is being set up and it affords Sansa the opportunity to see him, however briefly. She waits impatiently for those moments, counts down the hours until they occur. Her sister still goes to see Sandor and his men train in the evening, occasionally being allowed to participate in their exercises. There is little that might be said at the moment and so Arya does not always pass messages, apart from telling each how the other is faring. Through Arya, each knows what was said to the other by Robb. Each knows exactly how things stand and how they must proceed now. 

Yesterday however, Sansa had sent Arya with a specific message for him. She knows that he is to depart with the Tallhart men sometime within the next day or so and she wishes desperately to see him properly before he does. As her old sworn shield it is only appropriate that he would come to take his leave of her before departing, and such a move should not bring too much untoward attention upon them. If it should confirm Robb’s suspicions then… then perhaps that is for the best. Perhaps it will make it easier for him when they finally leave. 

Sansa cannot blame her brother for his wishes, not really. Kingship sits heavily on Robb’s shoulders and he is trying his best to fulfill his responsibilities and make up for his past mistakes. He wants to be a good king, a strong king, a just king, and Sansa knows that he will be. No, she cannot blame him for wanting her marriage to help accomplish this, it is the way that they were both brought up to think. Sansa does not blame her brother for his expectations, but she is disappointed by his refusal to consider allowing her to decide her own future. She does not blame him but neither will she set aside her happiness in order to bend to his wishes. She hopes… no, it is better if she no longer allows herself to hope. 

Robb has his own burdens to bear and his own journey to take, just as she has hers. Things have remained strained between them ever since their conversation and Sansa wishes that it could be otherwise, that if she is to leave then she can at least do so on good terms. Yet whatever she might say to mend the breach between them would be a lie and proved false in the end. She would rather leave her brother honestly than with deception between them. 

Dawn has just broken and the camp beginning to stir when Sandor comes to her, calling out at the entrance of the tent to announce his arrival and ask for admittance. They are so very careful to observe the proprieties now when it seems as if one wrong move could ruin everything. 

Sansa is only half ready for the day’s ride ahead, already dressed but with her hair still bound loosely with the night’s ribbon rather than in the simple plait she usually keeps it in while they travel. She calls out for him to come in, already rising from the pallet to make her way forward even as she does so. 

And then there he is, closer than he’s been for more than two weeks, and every line on his face, every scar and jagged fissure precious to her and something to be memorized anew.

He checks that the tent flap is securely fastened before crossing to meet her, his long legs covering the distance in only two strides. Then she is lifted up, crushed to him, his face buried in her hair and his arms wound tightly around her back as she lifts her own hands to encircle his shoulders, burying them in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

They both know that they don’t have long, within half an hour someone will come to pack up the girls’ tent in preparation for the day’s journey, perhaps half an hour after that they will be expected to be on their horses and ready to go. Sansa turns her head to kiss his scarred temple where it lies close to her face. Sandor raises his own head finally and sets her back down upon the ground, moving his hands to cup her cheeks instead.

“Let me look at you ‘til I’ve had my fill,” He tells her, gazing down upon her with such an expression that it is all she can do to simply stand there and let him rather than trying to raise herself to kiss him upon the lips. Instead she gazes back at him, trying to memorise features that she may not see for a month or more, should it take some time to drive the Ironborn out. By the time he reaches Torrhen’s Square they should be almost back to Winterfell, where she shall wait until he returns. She has longed for it, and yet it cannot be home while he is not there. 

“I shall miss you,” she tells him as they look at each other, “I will look for your return daily. You must be careful.” 

“I’ll miss you too, little bird.” He tells her with a crook of a smile, his scars twisting as he gives it to her. “Not to worry, the squids are no match to me. I’ll throw the buggers back into the ocean and return before you know it.” He gives her a long, searching look then. “Your brother will not try to marry you off before I return, will he? If you think it a risk then I would take you away from here now.”

Sansa shakes her head, trying to reassure him. “Robb will not do that, he will not force a marriage upon me. He believes that I need time and shall give me until after all the Greyjoy forces have been expelled from the North before asking me to reconsider. That gives us time enough and if he should change his mind then we may leave once you return from Torrhen’s Square instead of after Deepwood Motte is retaken.”

He nods, satisfied with the plan and moves his hand to caress her cheek lightly. “I’m sorry that it did not happen as you wanted, little bird.” He tells her sincerely, “If you wish to delay in the hopes of winning them over…”

“No.” Sansa shakes her head firmly, “I should like to give Robb the option of consenting before we leave but I do not wish to delay while we wait for something that might never occur.” She glances towards the back of the tent where Arya is getting ready for the day, studiously avoiding looking towards them; then takes a step forward so that she is pressed against him, the hardness of his body in sharp contrast to hers. She raises her hands to place them on his chest and looks up at him. “I am yours, you have only to take me. I wish to be yours, completely. I wish that nobody should be able to set us asunder.”

Looking up at him, she can see the movement of his neck as he gulps, sees him wet his lips as he gazes down at her with unconcealed desire. Placing his hand on the small of her back he presses her even closer to him and oh gods, she can feel him, the hardness of him, and she suddenly knows exactly what it means when he looks upon her in that way. He swoops down to kiss her, his lips hard and demanding upon hers, his teeth briefly clashing with hers before she opens her mouth to him, gasping when she first feels his tongue, when he nips lightly upon her bottom lip. 

By the time he lets her go she is weak kneed and giddy with wanting, with needing, her stomach churning with it and an almost ache building in the region beneath. Sandor looks down at her with a wolfish grin that is entirely too proud. 

“And will you give me a favour to carry with me into battle this time, little bird, as you once did?” He asks, reaching forward to tuck some of her hair behind one ear, his other hand leisurely stroking her arm. 

Sansa reaches up and unties the ribbon from her hair, then takes his right arm and pushes his sleeve up his arm, fastening her ribbon tightly around his forearm, high enough up that it will not be able to be easily seen. He touches it when she is done, his fingers stroking the satin.

“I have something else for you too,” She tells him, and leaves him for a moment to go to her trunk and retrieve a parcel wrapped in plain black cloth. She returns to him and holds it out, placing it in his arms. 

“It is your cloak,” She tells him, almost shyly, “The cloak with your sigil. I finished it two days ago and thought that I should give it to you before you leave. We will be at Winterfell soon and should anybody see it among my things while unpacking it would be hard to explain. You must keep it safely until the time comes to set it upon my shoulders.”

“Sansa,” He murmurs, and leans down to kiss her almost chastely this time, his nose brushing against hers as he does so. 

“I will keep it safely,” He tells her, “And drape it over your shoulders just as soon as may be. I’ll say goodbye now, and leave before anybody thinks to check on you.”

Looking over Sansa’s shoulder he makes eye contact with Arya and nods at her in a gesture for her to come forward. She does so, giving him a quick grin.

“At least I’ll have a new set of walls to look at once we’re at Winterfell.” Arya comments, causing Sandor to give a harsh bark of laughter. 

“Look after your sister and after yourself as well, brat.” He tells her almost fondly and reaches out to muss her hair. “And keep up your sword practice, remember your drills.”

Arya nods seriously and then moves away to give them some privacy for a final farewell.

“I’ll arrive back soon enough,” Sandor tells Sansa, reaching out a hand to squeeze her shoulder. “And when I do, Patrek fucking Mallister had better not be there courting you or I’ll shove his own fucking sword up his arse.” 

Sansa wants to laugh, knowing that he’s trying to distract her from the parting but only manages a nod instead. 

“Be careful.” She tells him, standing on her toes to kiss him goodbye.

“And you.” He replies, caresses her cheek once more and is gone. 

**

Sansa does not see him leave for Torrhen’s Square; they are too far back in the host when the separation takes place and all she manages to glimpse is his banner flying from a distance. She watches it disappear further into the distance with a heavy heart, knowing that from the time they reach Winterfell she will begin a vigil until it once again reappears. 

It is difficult without him, knowing that he has gone to fight, and yet she does not fall apart. It is not the same as the time that he had gone to kill his brother when she had genuinely feared for his life. There can be no one within the Ironborn who is a match for him and she is confident that he will return safely to her. The worry does not wear upon her as badly this time, though there is a sorrow at what must come that cannot be dismissed. During the day she rides with Arya and Talisa, attempting to make light conversation, while at night she sews her Maiden’s Cloak, stitching carefully to while away the hours until she is able to sleep. 

They are two days away from Winterfell now and every step her horse takes seems like one step closer to a final farewell. Any joy to be had in seeing her childhood home must be tempered by a grief of losing it, of losing the family that she had been so happy to regain. Arya will go with them if they allow it and Sansa feels an added guilt at that. Is it fair to take away yet another of her mother’s remaining children, even if it is what Arya wants? 

Yet she cannot deny Arya, it would be a comfort to have her with them and Sansa knows that the life of a lady would stifle her sister. Arya is now too old to be allowed to run around in breeches and practice her swordplay for too much longer and she would be miserable in the role of a proper lady. Every decision that Sansa makes will end up hurting somebody and she is struggling to cope with the feelings that this inspires in her. 

Robb has estimated that they should reach Winterfell on the morrow but is proceeding cautiously in case there are still Ironborn there, and it is with conflicted feelings that Sansa looks forward to it. The last time she saw it, Father was still alive, and Bran and Rickon as well. Now their pack is diminished, and their home damaged. There will be bodies to be buried when they arrive, of beloved old friends such as Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick, perhaps of her brothers as well. Winterfell has seen bloodshed and tragedy and while it may be rebuilt and bodies removed, the shadow of those events shall continue to hang over it. 

Sansa’s musings are interrupted by the light touch of her goodsister’s hand upon her arm as they ride side by side.

“You have not been yourself lately,” Talisa comments, a note of concern in her voice. “Are you feeling alright?”

Sansa gives her a wan smile and shakes her head slightly. “It is nothing, really. I am just preoccupied, there is nothing wrong with me.”

“It’s because your husband is an idiot.” Arya comments, addressing Talisa. “I have no idea whatsoever why you wanted to marry someone so thick headed.”

“Arya…” Sansa chides, partly in an effort to remind Arya to be careful what she says, and partly because she really should not be speaking of their brother in that way. 

Talisa seems more amused by Arya’s description of her husband than annoyed though, attempting to hide a small smile. “He told me that you had argued, though not what it was about.” She admits, “Is there anything that I might do to help matters?”

Sansa is shaking her head in the negative but Arya is already replying, ignoring a warning look shot her way. “Tell Robb that he should let Sansa choose her own husband rather than trying to pick one for her.” 

“Arya…” Sansa shoots her a much sharper look this time before turning back to Talisa. “We argued over his desire for me to marry soon, and to a man chosen by him. I do not wish… I asked him to allow me the same freedom to choose my fate that he exercised himself.”

“When he married me.” Talisa comments, seemingly undisturbed by the revelation. “I have thought about it often since our marriage, about what was lost due to his decision.”

“Please do not think that we are disappointed with his decision,” Sansa tells her hastily, “We could not ask for a better goodsister. I am glad that Robb married for love and for happiness, I would only wish…”

“That he would allow you the same.” Talisa finishes for her, a look of empathy upon her face. “I know how it is with marriages among high houses, even among my people it is the same. I could speak with him if you wish?”

Sansa shakes her head, “I do not wish to the cause of an argument between the two of you, I shall approach the topic with Robb again when the time is right. There is no need for now, until… until the North has been properly retaken and our position is once again secure.”

As Sansa looks at her goodsister, there is a dawning of understanding upon Talisa’s face. Too late, she realizes that perhaps she should have guarded her words and admitted to nothing at all.

“Is there somebody that you love, Sansa?” Talisa asks her in a low voice, “Somebody who you wish to marry that Robb might not approve of?”

Sansa freezes, stuck between an urge to lie and a wish not to do so. She does not know Talisa well enough to be able to trust her with such a large secret, to be able to trust that she will not speak of it to Robb. 

“I…” Sansa begins to say, only to cut herself off. “Does it matter?”

“To me it does,” Talisa continues, “And perhaps to Robb as well if he knew of it. He wants you to be happy, he would not force you to marry where that is not possible.”

“And yet he would not willingly give me to whom I would choose either.” Sansa comments sadly. “I cannot speak of it to you, I would not ask you to lie to Robb if he wished to know, and he cannot know it for now, not until…”

“Until the man you wish to marry might come back?” Talisa suggests somewhat shrewdly, her eyes firmly upon Sansa’s face.

Sansa cannot help the blush that rises to her cheeks, “I… I cannot…” she struggles to say something, anything, and fails, suddenly afraid.

Talisa reaches out a hand once more, this time grasping Sansa’s where it tightly grips her horse’s reins. “I will not betray you,” Talisa reassures her, “You need not say his name to me, but I have wondered… You have both shown such a strong dedication to each other since the first time I saw you that I could not help but wonder.”

“And you won’t tell Robb?” Arya cuts in, looking as concerned as Sansa feels. 

“No, I won’t.” Talisa confirms, “It is not my secret to tell and when I made my own marriage for love I would not stop you from doing the same, even if it is against my husband’s wishes. I know Robb, he will come around to it in time.”

“Do you really think so?” Sansa asks her, trying to suppress a brief glimmer of hope. “My mother though… I do not think he will ever be good enough for her.” 

“I’m still not certain that your mother considers me good enough for Robb,” Talisa replies with a twinkle in her eye, “Though I have somewhat redeemed myself by conceiving his heir. Your mother loves you though, and while it may take some time… perhaps years, when she sees that you are happy then she will reconcile to it.”

“Thank you, for giving me some small amount of hope.” Sansa says sincerely, “I do mean to tell the truth to Robb when the time is right, and then we shall see what he says.”

“Well, you shall have one more person to speak on your behalf when you do.” Talisa comments, “After all, if it were not for him then neither I nor my child would be alive today. I shall never forget the relief I felt when I saw him riding down the road towards me, as if the Stranger himself was after him. He cut those Freys down like they were nothing and didn’t even pause, he was so desperate to get to you.” She stops and gives a knowing smile, “When I thought on it later I suspected… but thought it best not to interfere.”

“Well I’m glad that Robb had sense enough to marry you,” Arya says with a grin, “It shows that there is hope for him yet.” 

There is hope for all of them, Sansa realizes, she should not have given up so soon. One lost battle does not signify the end of a war. Even if the worst scenario occurs and they are estranged from her family, she may still hope for an eventual reconciliation.

Sansa allows herself to laugh along with Arya and Talisa, her heart now slightly lighter. 

She shall take things one step at a time from now on, and for now every step takes her closer to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter I'm afraid we'll be going on a short break while I'm overseas on holiday! The next one should be up sometime after the 22nd November once I'm back :)


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

 

They camp outside the walls of Winterfell until Robb deems it to be ready for the ladies to settle inside. 

Sansa cannot help but be glad of it, it was difficult enough to see the castle’s large gates broken down and burned and to glimpse the devastation within it. She carries enough ghosts already, she does not wish to have the image of the broken bodies of those she had known burned into her memory.

They find Maester Luwin in the godswood, recognizable by the chain around his neck. Lady Catelyn elects to prepare his body for burial herself, in recognition of his long years of service and for the affection that she bore him. Sansa weeps when she sees the body, flesh long since dissolved and only bones remaining within his old robe. He should have died peacefully in his bed of old age rather than like this. He will be at peace now at least, she hopes, along with her father and the others they have lost. 

The night after they arrive at Winterfell, Robb joins them all in Lady Catelyn's tent to sup, a strange look upon his face.

"I am not sure whether I should say this to you, since it may be cruel to give false hope, but I am not certain that the bodies of the boys we found are those of Bran and Rickon." he begins, a hesitant hope upon his face.

Lady Catelyn is stunned into shock and so it is Sansa who speaks, "What do you mean, Robb?" she asks him, "We had heard that Theon Greyjoy killed them."

"Yes, we did hear that. Yet why did he burn the bodies beyond recognition if that was the case? Before we left Moat Cailin, Howland Reed came to see me. He told me that his son Jojen had had a greendream about Bran and that Jojen and his sister Meera had come to assist him in some way. Lord Howland does not believe them dead, and the Reeds have always known things that others could not." He pauses, stopping to nod towards his wife. "When I found the bodies, I asked Talisa to help me prepare them and she is of the opinion that neither could be that of a boy who was crippled. Both bodies are to my mind too large to be Rickon also. There is also the fact that we have not found any body among the dead large enough to be Hodor.”

There is an almost collective intake of breath at this, and Sansa reaches out to take her mother’s hand, seeing that she is clearly overwrought. Her brothers, sweet Bran and fierce little Rickon, could they really still be alive? 

Lady Catelyn grasps her hand tightly, and Sansa can feel her mother’s fingers shaking through the grip. 

“But if they managed to escape then where are they now?” Lady Catelyn asks, “Why have they not made themselves known to any of our allies?”

“Maybe they didn’t know who to trust after Theon betrayed us,” Arya suggests, “Maybe now that we’re home again they’ll hear about it and come back too.”

It is almost too much to hope for, but Sansa cannot stop herself from contemplating it all the same. If Robb is right and the boys are alive, then she can only pray that they are well and safe, wherever they may be. If they are alive then they may return some day, come home again to their family. She realizes with a pang that if they do, she will most likely not be here to see it. She may never be reunited with them should her family not accept her marriage.

It stings, cuts like a knife into her flesh. She has made the right decision, the only possible decision for her, but she is not insensible to what she will be giving up. If she loved him less then perhaps she would not have the strength to go through with it, but love him she does, as much as it is possible for one to love another and more besides. 

They do not allow themselves to speak overly long on the possibility that Bran and Rickon are alive. Talisa could be wrong, and Hodor could have escaped on his own without the boys. While all of their thoughts might continue to dwell upon it, the conversation soon turns to other matters. 

It is when the meal has been finished and they are all leaving for their tents for the night that Lady Catelyn calls her daughters aside, stopping them before they can go.

“Arya, would you mind keeping your goodsister company for some time?” Their mother asks, “I need to speak with Sansa.”

Arya spares her sister a wide eyed, worried glance but nods and walks over to join Talisa, leaving them alone. 

The walk back to the girls’ tent is short, and they are silent until they have reached it and walked inside. The lamps within have already been lit for the evening, and the inside of the tent is bathed with a low light. 

Sansa walks in uncertainly, attempting to gain control of her emotions before her mother begins whatever discussion she intends. It has been so long since they have spoken privately, there has not been a moment alone since they left Riverrun. So much has happened in that time and so much has changed that Sansa no longer knows what she might say to her mother. Her time in King’s Landing has given her practice in the arts of deception and concealment, yet she has never wished to use them upon her own family. 

There was a time when her mother had perhaps been the member of the family that she was closest to, sharing a love of courtly life and tradition, confiding her hopes and dreams. Sansa had also wished to make her mother proud, to excel at all the arts she deemed necessary for her education as a lady. Their relationship is now fractured, missing pieces that used to fit. Sansa does not know if it is her fault or merely the result of time and change but the connection that once existed between mother and daughter is no longer the same. She loves her mother so very much, but what she wants in life now is so completely different to the vision her mother has of what her daughter should want.

Lady Catelyn walks to Sansa’s pallet, giving her daughter a beckoning smile to encourage her to join her there. Picking up the brush that sits upon a nearby table, she motions for Sansa to sit before undoing her hair and beginning to brush it. 

“You’ve always had such beautiful hair,” Lady Catelyn comments as she passes the brush down it in slow strokes, “I remember before you left Winterfell, I used to dismiss your maid so that I could brush it myself. Now here we are, returned home after what seems almost a lifetime.”

A lifetime to be sure, Sansa remembers the last time that her mother had brushed her hair, almost three years ago now. She had been only 13 and had begged to be allowed to marry Joffrey. What a child she had been then, so convinced that he was a prince out of the songs come to life.

“It is good to me home again,” Sansa says softly, “Though it will never be the same without Father, without my brothers.”

She includes Jon in the thought as well, though she would not speak his name at this time. She had loved him as much as her other brothers after all, it was as much concern for her mother’s feelings as an awareness of the difference in their parentage that made her refer to him as her half-brother. Should she see him again now, after everything that she has lost and gained, she would not hesitate to throw her arms around him and call him brother. Sansa has come to understand that status and social expectations mean nothing when it comes to family or love. As has been the case with Arya, she only hopes that he will forgive her mistakes when they someday meet again. If they someday meet again…

Sansa cannot see Lady Catelyn where she stands behind her, but she can feel her slight nod as she continues to brush her hair. They share an almost comfortable silence until her mother puts the brush away and comes to sit beside Sansa on the pallet.

“Robb told me yesterday about your disagreement with him,” Lady Catelyn begins gently, “That you do not wish to accept his choice for your husband.”

Sansa stays silent, preferring to see how her mother chooses to proceed rather than rushing into the discussion heedlessly.

“Your brother does not wish this to come between you, but he is a man and a king besides. It is you who will need to compromise.” Lady Catelyn sighs, “Ydo understand why it is that he asks this of you, Sansa?”

“I do understand.” Sansa admits softly, “And once I would’ve done my duty unquestioningly, even gladly. Once I would’ve been content with Robb’s promises of a young lord for a husband, one who was handsome or brave. But I am not that girl anymore and I cannot make myself into her again. Even though I understand the need, I cannot agree now. I wish to marry according to my own choice.”

Lady Catelyn is silent, and reaches out a hand to take Sansa’s in hers as she considers a reply.

“You know how it is with the noble houses, Sansa. Girls do not choose their own marriages, they are chosen for them. Even the men of noble families must put aside their own desires when it comes to marriage. While your brother chose to marry for love he is the exception rather than the rule. I understand why you are reluctant, but you may trust your brother to choose well for you. We could not do otherwise than agree to the betrothal with Joffrey at that time, I had hoped that the alliance would protect our family and that you would be happy with him. This time we will make sure that the man you are engaged to is a good man, one who treats you kindly.” She squeezed Sansa’s hand, “I did not know your father when I married him and yet I grew to love him, and he loved me in return.”

“But I am not you,” Sansa whispers, looking down, ashamed even to voice it. “And I cannot be happy in such a match, not now. Before King’s Landing I could have been, I would have been, but now…”

Her mother cups her cheek gently, raising Sansa’s face to hers. “Tell me now honestly, Sansa, what was done to you there? Did Joffrey… did he ever…”

Sansa shakes her head, knowing that by her previous refusal to speak of it, her mother has made her own assumptions though she had never intended it be that way. “No, not that.” 

She will speak the truth today, whatever part of it that she is able, and when she makes her choice she will hope that it helps her mother to understand. Catelyn Stark’s face registers a deep relief, but Sansa is not finished.

“He would have me beaten whenever he wished, when I displeased him sometimes, whenever Robb scored some victory over the Lannisters. After Lord Stafford Lannister was killed and his forces defeated, Joffrey me stripped in court and perhaps he would have done more if Tyrion Lannister had not intervened.” She fixes her mother with a steady gaze, “I have known what it is to be powerless, to await the next blow or cruelty with no recourse to justice. I would never place myself under the protection of any man again unless I had the deepest trust in him.”

She has found that in Sandor, whom she trusts above all men, whom she trusts with both her life and her heart. She knows him inside and out, knows that he will be a good husband, one that will respect as well as love her. 

“My poor child, my poor little girl.” Her mother whispers, and hugs her tightly. “And there was no friend at court, nobody who could protect you.”

“There was one.” Sansa murmurs and seeing her mother’s look of confusion, her lips curve into a wry smile. “He who brought me back to you.”

There is a dawning of comprehension upon her lady mother’s face, and Sansa cannot help but wonder if she has revealed too much. Perhaps it no longer matters, it will most likely be only a matter of a month or two before they leave and Robb cannot exile Sandor at this point after all that he has done or uncomfortable questions will be raised. If they know… if they know then Sansa can hope that they may finally begin to understand. 

“Sandor Clegane.” Lady Catelyn says the name thoughtfully, but with a certain amount of distaste before searching her daughter’s face, looking for some evidence there. Sansa keeps her expression purposefully neutral, waiting for a sign from her mother, any type of sign that she may one day accept Sandor as a goodson. 

“I will always be thankful to him for what he has done for you,” Lady Catelyn continues, as carefully as Sansa herself might choose to speak. “I am glad that your brother plans to reward him for his actions once the fighting is done. I hope that you realize though, that while a bond may have been formed due to your time in King’s Landing together, that he is not suitable company for you now that you are back North.” Lady Catelyn pauses, her eyes firmly fixed upon Sansa’s. “You are a Stark of Winterfell, Sansa, one of the ladies of the house. You are expected to uphold certain standards and I know that you will. Your brother will choose someone who is worthy of you. You have always been a good girl.” She pats Sansa’s cheek softly, before rising from the pallet. 

Sansa stands too, face still impassive. She nods to show her mother that she has understood. It is not a lie, nor deception, she does understand even if she does not agree. 

“I will speak with Robb,” her mother continues, “I can understand your reluctance and your need to be able to trust your future husband. Once the North is safe again he may send for a suitor for you, or more than one if you wish, and you may get to know them.”

“And if I refuse?” Sansa asks, her voice a tired whisper. “If I wish to make another choice? If I consider that another is worthier of me.”

She is pushing the subject and she can see a flicker of real worry in her mother’s eyes before Lady Catelyn’s expression settles. 

“I am confident that you will decide correctly when the time comes.” Lady Catelyn replies, gives Sansa a warm smile and leaves the tent. Sansa knows that it is her sense of family, duty and honour that her mother hopes to appeal to, for all the good it will do. 

For all of Talisa’s confidence, Sansa cannot help but think that an estrangement is inevitable. She has had it made clear to her twice over that Sandor will not be considered a suitable choice for the sister of the King of the North. They will not change their minds so easily about him, and their belief in her tractability makes it all the worse.

She will not push the matter now until Sandor has returned, until the time for them to leave is nigh. When that time comes, she will try to convince them, assure them that she can never be anybody’s but his and will hope for a miracle.

When Arya returns to the tent ten minutes later there is no need to say anything about what has been discussed. A questioning look and a sad smile in return and everything is understood. 

“It’s a pity you were never as rebellious as me, they would have been far more likely to expect this then.” Arya comments as they settle down for sleep.

Sansa is certain that she is right, but they will soon learn that there are traits enough that are common to her and Arya.

“We are both daughters of House Stark, and it is steel and wolf blood that we have running through our veins.” Sansa murmurs. “And a wolf cannot go against its nature.”

They will come to understand it in the end.

**

On the third day after their arrival, Robb considers Winterfell adequately prepared for the ladies of the household to finally settle within its walls. In the meantime there have been other changes, many of their bannermen have left for their own strongholds; the Mormonts to Bear Island, the Umbers to the Last Hearth and the Boltons to the Dreadfort. Sansa is glad to see the Boltons go, having never felt comfortable in their presence. Both Sansa and Arya are disappointed to see the brave Mormont women leave however, Arya in particular who had been heartened to see an example of female warriors. They must all go to strengthen their defenses and see to their own preparations before winters sets in. The Mormonts must also prepare to launch a sea attack upon Deepwood Motte to cut off escape routes once the Stark and Glover forces are in place.

Winterfell has been sacked, and many precious possessions are missing, yet Sansa is heartened to see that the damage is not so bad as she had feared. A side of the old First Keep and the roof of the Great Hall have collapsed, the Maester’s Tower and Bell Tower have been destroyed, but the Great Keep at least is intact with minimal damage and so they have somewhere to live. Fire damaged furnishings and fabrics have already been removed from the rooms and it falls to the ladies of the house to decide what can be salvaged and find accommodations for the bannermen that remain with them. 

One of the first tasks is to settle Lord Eddard Stark’s bones within Winterfell’s Crypts, alongside those of his father, brother and sister. They will need to find a stonemason to carve his likeness but Sansa cannot help but feel a small comfort that they have managed to bring Father home at last, to rest beside those he loved and watch over them. In the crypts they find evidence that somebody had lived there for some time, hiding perhaps, and the fragile hope that has been planted in all of their hearts begins to grow anew. 

Despite Robb’s protests, Lady Catelyn insists that he and Talisa must move into the Lord’s chambers, and Sansa believes that he does so with a heavy heart, all the more aware of their father’s loss. Talisa has grown heavy with child and Lady Catelyn refuses to allow her to do any strenuous work, setting her to mending and sewing within her chamber where she may remain warm. 

For the moment, while the Glovers and other bannermen remain with them, Sansa and Arya elect to share a chamber, moving in the pallets and furnishings that they have used while on the road here. There are more important repairs to be completed than replacing the furniture in their chambers and Sansa knows that soon she will not be in need of it at all. The courtyard is filled with the sounds of carpenters, masons and blacksmiths at work as the castle begins to be set to rights, repairs being made and defenses being strengthened. As Sansa had predicted to Arya on the road, there is a great deal of sewing to be done as they set to replacing destroyed curtains, linens and furnishings or weaving together new rushes for the floor. Sansa does not mind, it keeps her busy while she waits for his return and she is glad to do whatever she can to set her family’s home to rights. She visits the godswood daily to pray, for Sandor’s health, for the possibility that her brother’s may be alive, for her family to accept her choice, for the souls of those they have lost to find peace. There are so very many things to pray for. It is a peaceful place and Arya likes to join her there, practicing her drills with Needle while Sansa prays or sitting to chat with her. 

Some days, she and Arya take their tasks to the Lord’s chambers to sit with Talisa while they work. They tell her about their home as it once was and listen to stories of her own home, beyond the Narrow Sea in Essos. Knowing that she may now trust her goodsister with her secrets, Sansa also confides her history with Sandor to her. It is a comfort to be able to speak of him while he is away, as if in some way it may bring him closer. At times, Talisa will confide whispered details of the marriage bed and how to avoid becoming with child. While Sansa is left blushing and embarrassed by such descriptions, Arya is more often open mouthed with wide eyed curiousity. 

When they have been settled within Winterfell for ten days, Robb announces that he has received two messages. A raven has arrived with the news that Torrhen’s Square has been regained with minimum casualties and that while the Tallharts will remain there now to guard the coast against further incursions, Sandor Clegane and his men are on the way back to Winterfell. For once, Sansa does not try to hide the smile of genuine happiness that comes to her lips on hearing it. Let them see that he gives her joy, and let them think upon it. Her mother and brother both spot the emotion on her face, Robb’s expression in return thoughtful while her mother frowns.

There has been a raven from the Riverlands as well, from her Uncle Edmure at Riverrun. He writes that Joffrey has been murdered, poisoned at his own wedding feast and the Imp blamed for the deed and imprisoned. Sansa is not certain how she feels about it. She is glad that Joffrey is dead, yes, but she does not wish to dwell upon it. Tyrion Lannister had always been kind to her during her time at the Red Keep and she wonders what his fate will be for whatever part of the deed was his. Once the news would have meant everything to her, now it pales in importance in comparison to what the previous raven had brought. 

Joffrey has received justice and may it weaken the Lannisters more. She has no wish to play any further part in the game of thrones and hopes that her family may stay far from it as well. Let the Lannisters kill each other there in the South if it means that they will leave the North alone. Let the Starks remain where they have always belonged, in the North where the cold strengthens their blood rather than ever venturing South again. 

As for her, and whether her fate lies here or elsewhere, the next few weeks would reveal where her destiny lies.

Let Stranger’s heels fly as fast over the ground as the raven’s wings that brought the letter, bringing him back to her as soon as may be. 

She will be waiting to welcome him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! Had a fantastic holiday and have returned relaxed and ready to write ;) We're on the home stretch now :) Most likely less than ten chapters remaining though I still have no real idea of an exact number!


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

A shout goes up amongst the men when the walls of Winterfell are finally seen in the distance, jagged towers reaching up for the sky. 

They have been on the road from Torrhen’s Square for almost two weeks, with only three days spent inside the castle before that, after it had been won. The siege itself had lasted for only two days, the Ironborn who had held it were too few to adequately defend it and a few grappling hooks in the dead of night had done the trick. A few less squids would now be going back to those godsforsaken rocks in the ocean that they call home, a good message for the turncoat and his father. Sandor hopes the news of it might inspire the Greyjoys that remain at Deepwood Motte to give up their prize and take to their boats. 

There’ll be one less battle to fight then, one less separation to endure before he might claim his own prize. 

She’s never been far from his thoughts while he’s been gone, the memory of her as he’d last seen her, the warmth of her upon his skin and lips. As the Tallharts had feted his men after the victory and he’d sat at the high table with the Lord, he’d allowed himself to imagine similar evenings in future. What might it be like to be an equal among them, men whom he’d only ever believed he could serve? Robb Stark plans to make him a lord with lands, and if the King in the North should agree to his marriage with Sansa then he’d have a keep and a table of his own to host at. He would like that, to see his little bird play the role of a proper lady as she was meant to, charming allies and winning over foes. She was born to it, born to rule not only over a household, but by a husband’s side as an equal. He knows her strengths and skills, her quick wits and talent for diplomacy. Should they win in the end then he would have her by his side in all things, have her to not only support him but advise him as well. 

It is too good of a dream to be true. 

His men are glad that they shall have a roof over their heads and a few days rest and food before they leave for the next campaign. Sandor is glad only of the chance to see her, spend a few days in her company. He’ll find the chance to hold her, some corner of the castle where they can go unnoticed. He’s craved for her while he’s been gone, craved for what he’d never known he’d needed until he met her; for love and understanding and touch. He’ll spend his life striving to be worthy of all she’s given him.

They spur the horses on to cover the remaining distance, the walls seeming to rise higher as they grow closer. It’s been more than two years since he was here last, and what a different arrival this one is to the last. They ride in the main gates, newly made and strong, Sandor is happy to note. He can see the damage immediately, the Maester’s and Bell Towers near the gate now collapsed, scorch marks apparent elsewhere and men at work on top of the Great Hall, replacing the roof. Everywhere in the courtyard there are men at work, strengthening defenses or making repairs.

The new castellan hurries forward as they dismount, greeting them and explaining the arrangements to Sandor as he listens with only one ear, gaze roaming the courtyard as he searches for any sight of her. When the man is finished, Sandor nods to him and turns to his men, ready to address them.

“We’re to be lodged in the Guards Hall,” He rasps, “Get yourselves cleaned up and get some food and then do as you please for the rest of the day. I expect you to make yourselves useful on the morrow though.”

There’s nods and shouts of agreement as the men disperse while Sandor follows the castellan towards the Great Keep to report to the King, still with no sight of her. He’d hoped that she might find some way to come before him, even if there’s no chance to speak for now. She’s a clever one though, his lady, and so he knows that she’ll pick her time with care.

He’s ushered in to see King Robb in the Lord’s Solar within the Great Keep. The King in the North looks up from his maps as Sandor enters, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. 

“It is good to see you returned.” Robb Stark states as Sandor stands at attention. “No difficulties in repelling the Ironborn?”

“None of note,” Sandor grunts, “They had too few men to hold the castle, it was an easy thing to go over the walls in the dark. The Tallharts are settling back in, already with plans to improve their defenses. The Ironborn will not take them so easily next time.”

Robb nods, looking back down at the map in front of him. “Will five days be enough time for your men to be on the march again?” He asks Sandor. “The Glovers are keen to regain their own lands and fort and I wish to send the Ironborn a decisive message.”

“We’ll be ready.” Sandor assures him, “They’re all young lads, overeager for glory. Give them a few days of rest and good food in their bellies and they’ll be itching to be out to prove themselves again.”

Robb Stark’s lips quirk in an almost smile, perhaps remembering a time not long ago when he was such a lad, before he learnt too much of war.

He gives Sandor a considering look, as if wondering at something but then nods, his expression once again neutral.

“Then take your own rest now and be at your leisure today, tomorrow there shall be a meeting with the Glovers to plan our course.”

Sandor gives his king a nod in reply and leaves, making his way out of the Great Keep and towards the courtyard. He’ll clean the dust and sweat of the road off him before he tries to find her, make himself as presentable as his face allows him to be. If nothing else he should see her at the meal tonight, knowing that the Starks generally eat with their bannermen. 

He hears a low whistle as he walks into the courtyard and glances over to see Arya seated on a bench, her legs swinging back and forth and a grin on her face. The brat’s hair has grown even more in the time he’s been away, now down to her shoulders. She looks almost a little lady in the dress her mother’s put her in except for the sword at her side and her expression. 

Sandor walks over to meet her, unable to stop his lips from twitching in amusement. “Well, little wolf, happy to be back home?” He asks her, “Improved any with that sword of yours while I’ve been gone?”

Arya rolls her eyes, “I’ve had more practice with sewing needles since I’ve been back than this one, but it’s good to be home all the same. We saw you arriving from the window in Talisa’s room so I came down to greet you. Did you kill all of the Ironborn?”

“Aye, that we did.” Sandor states simply, before glancing around to ensure there’s nobody nearby to hear their talk. “And where’s your elder sister then, not come down to greet her old sworn shield with you?”

Arya smirks at him and Sandor gives her a look that clearly says she should not try his patience. She stands up and steps closer, her voice low. “Sansa thought it might be best for you to get your bearings, you should enjoy exploring the castle. I’ve always liked the First Keep, it hasn’t been used for years and now that one of the walls has collapsed, nobody goes there. The staircase on the other side is still safe and intact though and there’s some rooms on the third floor that are in good condition.” She inhales and wrinkles her nose at him then, “I’d get cleaned up first if I was you though.”

He laughs roughly, unable to contain himself for the sheer joy of it. His clever little bird has made her plans in advance and found them a place to be alone. With the chaos of the repairs, likely nobody would miss either of them if they should disappear for an hour or two. 

“That I will, brat.” He tells her, reaching out to cuff her lightly on the side of the head for her cheek. “Off with you now, I’ll tell you about the battle later if you wish to hear of it.”

Arya gives him a grin and heads back into the Great Keep as Sandor strides towards the Guards Hall. He’ll clean himself up, have a bite to eat and then make his way to where she’ll meet him. 

He does not rush through his preparations, washing himself and donning a fresh tunic and breeches before he downs a quick meal and glass of mead at the tables set up for their use. He will not draw attention to himself by rushing or seeming as if there is somewhere that he must be, as impatient as he is to get to her. That said, he finishes the food as soon as may be, nodding at the men who remain and exchanging some banter before making his way outside. 

He knows where the First Keep is, remembers its position from his previous time at Winterfell. Sure enough, there is less activity at this end of the castle, most of the repair efforts focused upon the Great Keep and the Great Hall. Regardless, he wanders the area for a few minutes, seeming to be taking in the details, before he finally enters the building from the Northern side, near where the Broken Tower sits. Once he’s inside there’s nothing stopping him and he bounds up the steps quickly to the third floor, taking them two at a time in his haste. Three doors are visible and he is pondering which one to choose when suddenly the centre one opens, Sansa’s face appearing as she peers out, having heard his arrival. 

She brightens as if the sun has come out from behind a cloud, her entire face transformed by her smile. 

He knows then, that this is what it feels like to come home. 

Two steps and he’s reached her, the door already open and her eager hands tugging him into the room. He kicks the door shut behind him before picking her up, pressing her to him, crushing her until she’s close enough that he can feel her heartbeat thudding against his own chest. She looks up at him, happiness and adoration and desire and for a moment he can’t breathe, so he takes her breath for his own instead, his mouth descending upon hers. 

She presses one soft palm on his good cheek, brushing against his hair where it falls forward. Her other hand she slips inside the neck of his tunic, her fingers digging into his collar bone as she clings to him. For his own part he cannot be content to keep his hands in one place. He wraps an arm around her waist, resting his hand on the curve of her hip, uses the other to cup her cheek, run his fingers through her hair, trace the line of her neck. She shivers and he deepens the kiss, not wishing to release her, not yet, not ever. 

“I looked for you,” He rasps when they eventually break apart, his hands still firm upon her.

“I saw you arrive from the window. I wanted so very badly to be there to greet you, but it would not have been wise.” She replies, slightly breathless from the kiss. 

“Aye, it wouldn’t have been.” He agrees, “I didn’t dare hope that I might meet you like this. Is it safe?”

She gives him a quick grin, “Nobody comes here, there is too much to do with the Great Keep and Hall. We should not be missing for overly long lest someone notice but we will not be disturbed here.”

He pauses to look around the room for the first time since he’s entered it, notices that it is almost entirely bare. There is some broken furniture in one of the corners, old fabrics piled upon it but apart from that the room is empty. Taking only one of his hands from her, he turns around to bolt the door shut behind them just to be sure before he comes to another realization, a slow grin appearing.

“And your sister isn’t here.” He comments, his expression almost wolfish as he gazes down at her. 

“Of course not,” Sansa starts to say before she realizes what he means and blushes, looking down. It is the first time that they have been truly alone since he awoke from his injuries, months before. He sees her wet her lips nervously, biting the bottom one. 

As much as he wants her, has ached for her for months now, he knows that perhaps she is not ready for such a step, to become his in truth. He would not ask it of her now anyway, not at this time when there may still be months before he may make her a wife. The risk is too great should they be discovered or should she become with child and he will not see her put in danger for the sake of his desires. 

“Do not look so serious, little bird.” He mocks her gently, “I do not intend to ravish you here on the bare floor.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, and for a moment there is a trace of disappointment in her eyes. He catches it and it tests him sorely. “How many days do we have?” She asks him then, her hands dropping to his waist where they hold his sides lightly.

“Five,” He replies simply, “Then off with your brother to Deepwood Motte. It could be two months that time, before I see you.”

“Two months…” She whispers, considering it, though he knows that she must have realized it before now. It will be the longest that they have been parted; if all goes well then it may be the last time. 

“Did anything of note happen while I was away?” He asks her, “Anything to concern us?”

She tilts her head, still biting her lip as if in consideration, a glimmer appearing in her eyes. “Nothing that concerns our plans, but Robb suspects that our younger brothers may not have perished as we had believed. There is evidence… nothing to prove it, but the bodies found did not appear to be theirs, and there are no bodies that could belong to Hodor or their direwolves either. There are also signs that somebody had been living in the crypts, hiding there.”

Her eyes are shining as she relates the news and he gathers her to him, cradling her against his chest as he kisses her temple. He knows that she has wished for him as he has for her, wanted to confide her news to him and to hear his opinion upon it. They have grown to depend on one another, slowly but surely. 

He nods against her hair before he sets her back slightly so that she might see the truth in his face. “It is possible that the Greyjoy boy may have faked their deaths to conceal their escape from him. He seemed a proud sort, not one to wish to admit defeat.”

“He was that,” Sansa agrees, her expression more hopeful. “We shall never know for certain unless they come back to us and I can only hope that it occurs before…”

Before they must leave.

“Then there is no change on that front?” He asks, seeking her confirmation. 

She shakes her head. “Mother spoke to me about my obligations to marry according to my brother’s wishes shortly after our arrival here. Robb… We have not discussed it since that time. Talisa guessed the truth of the matter while we travelled and she will support our side when the time comes, but I do not know if it will be enough.”

“It is your kingly brother that we must convince above all and his wife may help in that.” Sandor acknowledges, “Whether your mother accepts or nay, it is he who will decide our fate.”

“And we have only five days for now,” Sansa murmurs, “Before I must bid you farewell again.”

She places her hands on his chest, warm and solid even through the thick cloth of his tunic and stands on her toes to bring her mouth to his. He has craved for her as he once used to crave for wine, her simple presence, her smiles and caresses. For a man who has been starved of love and kindness since childhood, she is a veritable feast, more bounty than he knows what to do with. How easily he has fallen into patterns of comfort and acceptance with her; how easily has she remade him into a different man, a better man, without ever trying to. She has taken the pieces of him, brushed the years of darkness off them gently and put them back together bit by bit. There will always be a shadow on him but now at least he might bask in her sun. 

So he kisses her, bending down so that he might taste her more fully, mouth devouring hers as he wraps a hand around her shoulders, allowing the other to skim down her side to the curve of her waist. He leaves her mouth to kiss the edge of her jaw before he makes his way to her throat and the exposed skin there, his lips heavy against the hollow of her neck, the underside of her jaw.

She gasps and twists in his grip, the sensation new to her. She presses herself even closer, flush against his arousal and, gods, he’s almost lost. Emboldened, he allows his hands to drift lower to cup her rear, a growl escaping him as he does so. Capturing her mouth again, he feels Sansa’s hands shift, shyly making their way to his waist where she slips them inside his tunic, gripping the bare skin of his back. 

They’ve both crossed a new line and Sandor breaks from her, breathing heavily, the sound rasping from him, and leans his forehead against hers, still gripping her tightly. 

“Gods, girl, you’ll have me staining my breeches at any moment like some green boy if you keep this up. You’d best be back to the Keep before I do something that I shouldn’t.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, her eyes focused upon his as she looks up at him. “And why shouldn’t you?” She asks him, “If I should wish for it too.”

Sure enough she is breathing as heavily as he is, the same desire upon her face as he supposes must be on his. She still has not removed her hands from his skin, now tentatively smoothing them against the pattern of scars and flesh that she has found there. 

He swears, his resolve almost breaking, and then shakes his head. “I would not dishonor you in that way, to take you here and now in such a place. You deserve better than that. You deserve a proper marriage and a comfortable bed.”

She deserves more than he’ll ever be able to give her. What she deserves is a man who’s whole and young and comely, though she’s chosen him instead. For all he knows he’s unworthy, he’ll not refuse the gifts she offers him. 

She purses her lips at him, seemingly amused. “I do not see the need to wait for those things. If the gods are good then we will be wed and have beds enough for many years to come. I know we will be married as soon as may be, I do not need that for you to make me yours. In truth I am already yours in everything but deed.”

“Oh my precious little bird, my sweet little bird.” He murmurs, leaning down to kiss her again briefly. “And what if you were to become with child while I was away and your mother discover it? And what if I should die in this battle and never be able to wed you?”

“Do not speak of death,” She tells him sternly, “It is not a possibility. As for the danger of becoming with child, I have spoken with my goodsister. I can wait for… for that. For now there are other ways that we might be together, without the risk. I know that it must have been difficult for you to wait so long, without…” she blushes, biting her lip. Such a proper little lady she is, still embarrassed to mention those things. 

It has been difficult, though he’s capable enough of taking care of his own needs when necessary. In King’s Landing, his visits to whores had only ever been brief affairs; his need fulfilled, he’d left them as soon as possible. He wishes now that he’d taken the time to learn to please a woman, as she deserves to be pleased. He is not entirely ignorant at least and snippets of conversation and banter between men come back to him as he thinks on it. He’ll spend the rest of his life learning to please her if that’s what it takes. 

“We have five days,” He tells her, as gently as he’s able. “I would gladly spend those days only as we have today if that is your wish, and should you want more then there is no need to rush, we have time.”

She nods once, more sure of herself now, and clutches onto him tightly, her fingers burning through his skin, her feet arching so that she might place a kiss upon his neck. 

Sandor is certain that he is already lost.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of certain underage activities in this one. 
> 
> Also some canon happenings after the 2nd book mentioned.

Chapter 24

Five days later she stands in the courtyard along with her mother, Arya and Talisa as they farewell the forces that go to liberate Deepwood Motte. 

As her mother’s eyes follow Robb’s form, she is able to catch Sandor’s eye before he rides out, a smile of promise upon her face, a decided warmth in his eyes as he gazes back. Then he has wheeled Stranger around and ridden out of the western gate with the rest of his men, following her brother to war. 

They had said their proper goodbyes in private the afternoon before, lingering kisses and heated touches as she struggled to hold on to him for just awhile longer. 

They might have had only five days before he left, but altogether it has been more time than they have had in one another’s company since they reached Darry all of those months ago. For these five days she has been able to see him in the yard in the mornings and at table in the evenings, slightly down the hall from her. Sansa has noticed both her mother and her brother watching them both during the evening meals. She restrains herself, and yet she will not stop herself from stealing glances at him, from allowing the happiness of it to be shown upon her face. Let them believe that that is all that occurs between herself and Sandor, but let them see it and think upon it, and have time to reconsider their decisions.

Arya is luckier by far than Sansa is, she may show her affection for him (though Arya herself would never choose to use such a word to describe it) freely, sitting to hear stories of the battle at Torrhen’s Square or practicing her swordwork with him. Sansa will always be grateful to her sister as Arya makes herself useful to their cause as always, passing messages and helping them to plan.

They have stolen their time together, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the middle of the day and sometimes in the late afternoon as the dusk creeps in, varying their plans to avoid suspicion, and always when her mother and brother are busy elsewhere.

How sweet it has been to have him spread his cloak over the floor so that they might lie upon it, hers bundled into a pillow beneath their heads, and to lie down with him, her head upon his chest, their arms around each other. To be able to speak their fill while trading kisses, of past grief or hurts, of future hopes and dreams. 

How sweet it has been to know him as a man, to grow to know herself as a woman, slowly discovering what might be between them. 

He has taken his time to explore her leisurely, never fully removing her clothes lest the sight of her tempt him too much and make him forget himself. He had removed his own tunic gladly enough to allow her access to his body, her hands exploring the hard muscle beneath, roaming from his chest to his abdomen and along the ridges of his shoulders and down his back. She had traced his scars and asked about them, brushed her fingers through the hair upon his body and wondered at the way he was made. He had allowed her to set the pace, his own hands skimming upon her body gently, almost reverently, only later slipping within her bodice or up her skirts. 

When she had been ready, and daring enough, she had unlaced his breeches, blushing all the while, and begun to learn how she might touch him there, recalling advice from her goodsister. He had asked her permission to do the same, his hands slipping up to remove her smallclothes and then they were upon her, touching, teasing, and oh, she had never known it was possible to feel such a thing. At times she was perhaps too hesitant and he too eager, his fingers a trifle too rough or hard, but she tells him and he adjusts, as they begin to learn each other. It is a strange type of power to hold him in her hands and see the effect she has upon him.

She had not known that a man could be built in such a way and it gives her an amount of trepidation for how it shall occur when a proper coupling eventually takes place. Yet above all she trusts him, knows that he will do all in his power to avoid hurting her. With all that she has now experienced she longs for that moment, to know it at last. 

She does not speak of any of this to either Arya or Talisa, not considering it proper to do so. It is something that should remain only between the two of them, a precious secret. 

With his departure, her days now fall back into the same routine; undertaking repairs or assisting her mother in her daily tasks in the management of the castle. If all goes well then Sansa will soon have her own household to manage, whether it be small or large, and she means to learn as much as possible before that. 

She catches herself smiling at odd times, humming and singing softly, blushing suddenly for no reason at all. Sansa fights hard to control her expression, fearing discovery when they are so close to their goal. She knows that her mother suspects the truth of her feelings, but Lady Catelyn does not expect her daughter to act upon them. She believes that Sansa is still the proper girl that she used to be, guided by courtly behavior. Perhaps she would not recognize this new girl that now exists in her daughter’s place, consumed by desires and hopes and longing. 

On the twentieth day after his departure, as she and Arya sit in the courtyard in the wan Autumn sun, there is an unexpected visitor. A knight rides in from the south gate, so tall that for a moment Sansa’s heart skips a beat, though she knows it cannot be him. When the knight removes their helm however, Sansa is shocked to see that it is a woman beneath the armour, almost as tall as Sandor and with a plain and honest face. There is sadness in her that Sansa well recognizes, of too much seen and done. She brings with her a squire, a boy whom Sansa remembers as having once served Tyrion Lannister.

Arya can barely contain her excitement at the sight of the visitor, who introduces herself as Brienne of Tarth and requests an audience with their lady mother, refusing any refreshment first but dismissing her squire that he may find some. After sending a message to Lady Catelyn and receiving a reply, they accompany her to their mother’s solar. Arya peppers Lady Brienne with questions as they climb the stairs, about her battles and her skill with a sword, but Sansa notices the weariness in the other woman even as she strives to reply courteously. 

When they enter the room, she and Arya take their seats while Lady Brienne bends the knee, kneeling before their mother. 

“Please, Lady Brienne, rise and be seated.” Lady Catelyn says, “I had not thought to see you here. You are very far from home and it must have been a long journey.”

Lady Brienne rises, and sits awkwardly upon one of the sofas. “You charged me with a task, Lady Catelyn. I had vowed to return your daughters to you, and I failed in that though they sit with you now. I returned Ser Jaime to King’s Landing as you asked of me though the outcome was not as we had planned. I have returned now for the vows of fealty that I swore to you.”

“And you returned the Kingslayer safely to King’s Landing?” Lady Catelyn confirms, “That is over at least, though I may rue that decision all my days.”

“Not safely, no.” Lady Brienne replies, her voice breaking slightly. “We were set upon by the Bloody Mummers on our way there. They cut off his sword hand and brought us to Roose Bolton at Harrenhall, who released Ser Jaime and sent him on his way. I would not have been so lucky had Ser Jaime not returned for me and demanded my release.”

It gives Lady Catelyn pause, they had not heard this tale from Lord Bolton, even when he rejoined the host on the journey North. It is a strange thing that he might conceal the fact that Jaime Lannister had been in his power only to be released.

Yet more than that, Sansa notices the slight hitch in the young woman’s voice when she speaks of the Kingslayer, the hint of emotion. It is difficult to believe that any bond might exist between them and she knows no good of Ser Jaime Lannister and yet… is it not true that many would think the same of Sandor? She thinks on the past ill deeds of the man she loves and the good that was buried within him and wonders if even the Kingslayer might be redeemable, if he might have it within him to be a better man. 

“I am grieved to hear it,” Lady Catelyn says, her expression carefully guarded though Sansa knows that she shall report this to Robb on his return. “I hope that they did not harm you?”

“No, my lady.” Brienne replies softly, her head bowed. “We arrived back in King’s Landing to find King Joffrey dead and Tyrion Lannister imprisoned for the deed. For his part, Ser Jaime bid me to return to you with his apologies that he was unable to uphold his own promises to you.”

“It is no matter,” Lady Catelyn tells her gently, “I have my daughters back, no matter how it occurred and you, Lady Brienne, may hold all of your oaths as fulfilled. I release you from my service. You may stay if you wish, or return to Tarth to be with your father. For now I hope that you might stay with us at least a few days to recover from your journey.”

Lady Brienne nods, her expression conflicted and still miserable. Sansa guesses what the reason may be. If she is right then it is an impossible situation to be sure. 

Lady Brienne reaches beside her to pick up a bundle that she had carried in and laid beside her, a curious almost round shape. 

“On the way back North, I stopped at the Inn at the Crossroads near Saltpans for a night. There I met one who when he heard of my mission wished to be remembered to you, Lady Arya.” She announces softly. “Ser Gendry sent this token for you and bid me to tell you that he’s now improved in his swordmanship should you wish to challenge him some day.”

She passes the bundle to Arya who unwraps it carefully, eyes shining with a mixture of emotions. Inside is a helm, crafted to fit Arya’s smaller head and intricately decorated with a pattern of wolves. 

It is fine work, indeed. Sansa remembers the boy from the clearing with the shaggy black hair and piercing blue eyes, who had stayed to farewell her little sister. This helm is not the work of a day, he must have made it with no real knowledge of whether he would ever be able to present it to her or not.

“Stupid idiot,” Arya murmurs, looking down at the helm with wonder, passing her hands slowly over the decoration of wolves. Sansa thinks that she might see a slight sheen of tears in her sister’s eyes before she blinks them away.

Lady Catelyn is frowning, “Who is this Ser Gendry?” She asks Arya, “I have not heard his name before, which House is he from?”

“Oh he doesn’t have a House,” Arya replies blithely, “He’s a bastard. He used to be an armourer’s apprentice in King’s Landing before he left to join the Night’s Watch. We travelled North together; he was part of my pack before he chose to be a knight with the Brotherhood without Banners and they ransomed me back to you.”

Lady Catelyn is not pleased, “I’m not certain that it’s proper for you to be receiving gifts from someone like him, Arya. You’re a young lady now and the connection should not be maintained.”

Lady Brienne opens her mouth as if to say something and then seems to think better of it and shuts it again. 

“Why not?” Arya asks indignantly, “Because he’s a bastard? Jon’s a bastard and he’s always been my favourite brother. It doesn’t make Gendry any less than me. I won’t let you take his present away from me.” 

With that she picks up the helm and leaves the solar, banging the door on the way out.

Sansa struggles against the sudden urge to laugh. A bastard armourer’s apprentice. 

Perhaps Sandor won’t seem like such a bad choice to her mother after all. 

**

Lady Brienne chooses to stay for only a week before she leaves, having decided to return to her father. She joins them at mealtimes, discussing the affairs of the realm with their mother and giving the latest news from her travels. During the day, Lady Brienne spars with the soldiers that have been left behind to guard the castle, putting them through their paces and always besting them. Arya watches eagerly and is thrilled when she is allowed to join in, asking questions and watching techniques. Sansa watches the tall woman, noticing that as awkward as she may be at other times, she has a beautiful grace while fighting. 

Sansa watches her, watches the way that others react to her, the way she tries to guard the expressions upon her wide, honest face. Nobody is cruel to her, not here at Winterfell wher she is an honoured guest, yet they look at her all the same with a strange fascination all the same. Sansa listens to Brienne’s tales of knightly deeds and chivalry as she tells them to Arya and senses in her a kindred spirit, somebody who knows that all the stories she learned as a child are false but wants to believe in their possibility none the less. 

The day before Lady Brienne is due to leave, Sansa approaches her, suggesting a walk in the Godswood which Brienne acquiesces to, walking alongside her. 

“We are not so different, you and I.” Sansa comments as they enter the wood.

“You are japing with me, my lady.” Brienne replies, a slightly hurt tone in her voice. “Should they see us side by side, it should be thought that we are as different as the sun and the moon, as…”

Sansa stops her with a smile, “They used to say that about my sister and I, yet she is as close to me as my own heart. You and I, we both love the old songs, tales of knights and chivalry. We both believe in the goodness of people, we see it perhaps, where nobody else can.”

The other woman may be older than her, but Brienne is the one that looks away, blushing. 

“You are returning to Tarth,” Sansa comments softly, more a statement than anything else. 

“Yes,” Brienne affirms, “My father is old and I should be by his side, I have been away long enough. I would not cause him more grief.”

“And Ser Jaime?” Sansa asks her, “What is his destiny now that he has lost his swordhand?”

Brienne starts, blushes again. “I had not thought to hear such a question from you, my lady, after what he did to your family. He… I believe he will be in King’s Landing for the present, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, with his… with his sister.”

“You see good in him.” Sansa comments, gentle in her approach. “You said that he came back to save you, after he was released.”

“He did,” Brienne affirms, “Though he did not need to. He has done terrible things, horrible things; to your little brother, and many more. Yet he was not always that way, once he used to believe as you and I do, before he entered the Mad King’s service. He is not truly a bad man, there is good in him.”

“I believe you,” Sansa tells her, genuinely. “There are many whom life makes that way, though goodness exists deep within them, hidden away to protect themselves. Perhaps with your influence he might begin to find the goodness within himself again.”

“I think he has begun to,” Brienne confesses, “But now…”

“Life is long, and maybe you will see him again someday to see the truth of it for yourself. Tarth is not so very far from King’s Landing.”

“No, it is not.” Brienne agrees, “And yet there are other distances that are more difficult to overcome.”

“Difficult but not impossible.” Sansa adds, with a warm smile. “As I said, life is long and many things may happen before the end of it.”

Brienne smiles at her in return and though it is somewhat hesitant, there is hope within it. 

Together they walk back to the courtyard. 

 

**

In the days following Lady Brienne’s departure, Arya is quiet, Sansa would almost say wistful. Her sister sits in their room in the evenings, polishing her sword or her helm decorated with wolves, rubbing them to bring out the shine. 

“There is something on your mind, I know there is.” Sansa prompts her, “Won’t you tell me? There should be no secrets between you and I.”

Arya gives her a crooked smile, “I have been thinking about Lady Brienne, she has so much skill and is so strong. Do you think I’ll ever be able to be a warrior like her? Though she’s high born, her father allows her to be one.”

Sansa considers it for a moment, coming to sit next to Arya on her bed. “It is much easier to choose your own role in life when you don’t fit into the roles that would normally be chosen for you.” She tells Arya gently, “Had Lady Brienne been of the same stature as most high born women, then perhaps she would not have been able to choose this life. She has had the freedom to follow some of her dreams, yet she has lost others.”

A dream of love, perhaps never to be realized.

“I wish I was like her,” Arya comments miserably, “I wish that I could follow my dreams instead of waiting to see what’s decided for me. I heard Mother the other day, telling Talisa about the Houses of the North, discussing which could be suitable alliances for me one day.” Arya looked down at the sword which lay beside her on the bed, at the helm that sat upon her lap. “I do not wish to give these up to be a proper lady.”

“It is well made, Gendry is a talented craftsman.” Sansa comments, knowing there is more to this and hoping to draw Arya out.

“He is, isn’t he?” Arya agrees, “When I first met him, he had a helmet of his own in the shape of a bull’s head, horns and all, that he’d made himself. Somebody took it from him when we were captured.” She runs her hand over the top of the helm. “It was good of him to think of me and make this, even though he did not know when we would meet again.”

“It was good of him indeed,” Sansa affirms, “It sounds as if he was a true friend to you. He must think of you often to have made such a piece for you.”

“I don’t understand why they idiot wouldn’t come with us then, if he thinks of me so much.” Arya replies, a note of hurt within her voice. “Nothing would’ve changed, we still would’ve been friends. He should’ve known that I wouldn’t change or try to act like a high lady with him.”

“I understand it though,” Sansa tells her, reaching out to take Arya’s hand. “You were friends during your time together, equals. Even after he knew of your birth, you were able to remain that way. Within our brother’s forces or here at Winterfell he would have been only a low born knight and an apprentice smith, certainly not believed to be equal to a Stark princess.” Sansa gives her a sad smile. “Don’t you see how it would’ve been? It has been difficult enough for Sandor to win respect, and he is at least the son of a minor House with a great deal of skill in battle. With Gendry… Mother and Robb would not have allowed the friendship to continue and he would’ve had to live bending the knee to you.”

There is an expression of realization on Arya’s face, a sudden understanding, and she turns to Sansa. “Am I not to see him again, then? After everything we went through together, we can’t be friends just because of who our parents are?” She shakes her head angrily, “It’s not fair. Even with Jon… none of it is fair.”

Sansa reaches out to hug Arya, wrapping her arms around her. “Don’t give up just yet.” She tells her little sister, “Life is long and we never know where it might lead.”

Their lives have led them both in a series of unexpected directions until now. Sansa hopes that finally they might have started on the path towards a lasting happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And from now on if I can manage to keep ahead of myself with chapters we should hopefully be swapping back to a 5 day posting cycle!


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Four weeks after they receive the raven that Deepwood Motte has been retaken with minimum casualties, Robb and his forces are finally spotted approaching from the Northwest. 

It has worried Sansa as she has waited for their return. Minimum casualties. Should Sandor have been harmed, would Robb think to send word of it? She knows her beloved’s strength, does not believe that the Ironborn would be able to harm him, and yet she cannot help but worry. Until she knows that he is safe and well she cannot be easy. As soon as word of their approach reaches her, she grabs Arya’s hand and runs with her to the top of the battlements, eyes searching eagerly for confirmation that he really is coming back to her, that their time of trials is almost at its end. 

Sansa’s eyes strain as she tries to make sense of faces and details at this distance, until Arya gives an excited shout and points, her keen eyes having spotted his banner. Sansa sees it then, the sigil that she sewed with her own hands, and grabs her sister, hugging her fiercely. 

“It shall all be right now,” She tells Arya happily, the relief palpable in her voice. “Everything is as it should be.”

Holding hands, they make their back down to the courtyard to await the arrival of the battle host, soon joined by their mother and Talisa. Their goodsister takes her time to come down with the assistance of her handmaiden, she is now heavily pregnant and eager to have her lord husband back before her time is upon her. 

The forces enter, triumphant and yet obviously tired, the dust of the road upon them and the weariness of weeks of travel. 

Robb shouts instructions before vaulting down from his horse, making his way over to them quickly, several of his principle bannermen and knights following. Sansa briefly catches Sandor’s eye, his slight nod of acknowledgement sends happiness coursing through her as she gives a warm smile in return, unable to help herself. He is as he ever was, alive and well and only battle weary and dusty and even dearer to her than ever before. 

How she has missed him during this time, wished for the sight of him, for his hands and lips upon her body, his simple reassuring presence. She is not willing to wait any longer to be his; they have waited long enough, months upon months for the right time, a good time. That time is now and with her brother’s position secure at last, she may pursue her own happiness.

Robb approaches them, a fierce pride upon his face, a deep affection as he sees Talisa. He seizes his wife’s hand and kisses it, still holding it as he turns to face his mother. 

“I bring you an important guest, mother.” He tells her, his voice that of a king, a warrior. “With the help of the Mormonts, we were able to capture Asha Greyjoy and some of her men when they tried to retreat. I trust you to see her suitably housed and that she remains safe. She is important leverage in our fight with the Ironborn.”

He nods once and Dacey Mormont steps forward, her hand tight around Asha Greyjoy’s arm to escort her. Sansa notices the resemblance between the lady and Theon and cannot help but think of her own small brothers, who might or might not be dead. Asha Greyjoy is cowed but not broken, a spark of resistance in her eyes as she allows them to lead her away along with the other prisoners. Should they be able to find Theon through her then they would have answers once and for all, and perhaps justice as well. 

“Of course,” Lady Catelyn replies, shaken but doing her best to conceal it. “Lady Dacey, if you would escort her to the cells for now then I shall ensure that a secure room is prepared where she may be kept safely.”

Dacey Mormont nods respectfully and along with the rest of the guard, escorts the prisoners towards Winterfell’s cells.

The bannermen are dismissed then to find their own rest and food, and Sansa watches Sandor go with a longing gaze, catching his own quick glance back towards her. It is already afternoon with dusk fast approaching and she fears that there will be no time for privacy today, to meet him and be with him as she wishes. 

“I would like to clean the dust of the road off me and then we should all meet within the Lord’s Solar.” Robb announces, “There is much to discuss and I wish to share the events of Deepwood Motte with you.”

“Yes, there is much to discuss.” Lady Catelyn agrees, and Sansa knows that she is thinking of Lady Brienne’s visit and the information revealed about Roose Bolton. 

They agree to give their brother an hour to refresh himself and Sansa makes a quick decision. Nothing may come of it, but unable to bear the thought of not speaking with him until the morrow, she must at least try.

“I would like to go to the godswood to give thanks for Robb’s safe return.” Sansa announces, “I shall return in good time.”

“See that you do not linger there after dark,” Lady Catelyn instructs her, too preoccupied by her own concerns to think much of it. “We shall await you in the Lord’s solar.”

Sansa nods, and as the rest of her family walk back inside the Keep, Arya gives her a significant look. Scanning the courtyard quickly, Sansa catches sight of him on the far side, apparently seeing to his horse but with a gaze firmly fixed upon her movements. She looks away and heads towards the godswood, hoping that he shall know her meaning in doing so. 

Arriving, she kneels in front of the Heart-tree and begins to pray, the wind rustling through the leaves above her. When younger she had been more attracted to her mother’s gods, loving the imagery and the songs that were associated with them. Now after the loss of her father she finds herself in godswoods more often, able to find a type of peace within them, a feeling of comfort.

“I thank you,” She tells the old gods, “For bringing both Robb and Sandor back safely and ensuring the success of my brother’s campaigns. We are home now and the main battles won, much of the balance restored. I would ask you to find my brothers if they are alive, and bring them back to us. They belong here, in their home. And Father… if Father should be able to see me then I hope that he will not be disappointed in me, in what I shall do. When he spoke of severing my engagement to Joffrey, I did not understand, I was foolish and I should have trusted him. He promised me that he would make a match with a high lord that was worthy of me, someone who was brave and gentle and strong.” She pauses, the words difficult now as she thinks on what her father would have wanted for her. “I have chosen for myself, and while I know that the man I have chosen is neither high born and nor would he be father’s choice, he is brave, and gentle, and strong. I hope that you might see me and be happy for me, Father.” 

She bows her head then, tears slipping from her eyes. The betrayal of the dead is no easier than the betrayal of the living, and her father’s expectations rest as heavily on her shoulders as her mother’s do. With her mother, there is at least the chance to one day make peace. There is no possibility of ever receiving her father’s blessing. 

As she sits in silence, her head bowed, the wind continues to pass through the branches above and a single leaf falls to land upon her shoulder. Looking up finally, blinking back her tears, Sansa cannot help but hope that it might be taken as a sign of benediction. 

She hears him approaching then, his footsteps heavy even upon the soft loam. Still dusty and smelling of sweat, leather and horse yet she is upon him in an instant, throwing herself into his arms and kissing him fiercely. 

He has washed his face and hands before coming to her, the clean smell of soap reaching her as he cups her face in his large palms, presses his mouth hard upon hers. He kisses her with an edge of desperation that she’s not felt in him before, almost biting her lip in his need. She opens her mouth to him and winds her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers in the hair that falls there. He is insistent, earnest in his passion, moving his hands to span her hips he pushes her closer, pressing her against him so tightly that she cannot help but feel his need. 

Breaking off to glance back towards the entrance of the godswood and knowing that it is far too close, he lifts her up, still flush against him; one strong arm around her waist and the other wound tightly around her thighs. She grips his neck tightly, curled slightly into him as he carries her further in so they are better hidden before he puts her down, placing her feet once more upon the ground. 

“If your gods are good, little bird, then I’ll not need to leave you for such a long time again.” He rasps, his need for her writ large across his face.

“Have you begun to believe in my gods then?” She asks him lightly.

He gives a grating laugh, his eyes glinting with humour. “You almost make me believe in them, girl, though if they were real they’d never allow the likes of me to have you.”

“Our Northern gods are the old gods, they care nothing for finery or rituals or rank, only for a true heart.” She tells him sincerely, “For all that you are a southron, perhaps they would suit you better than those you grew with.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees with a tilt of his head, “Though I need them not, nor am I about to start praying to them, but you…” He tilts his head to consider her properly. “I would worship you day and night, my lovely little bird.”

His meaning is unmistakeable and she places one hand above his heart, feeling the steady beat of it under her fingers. He places his own hand atop hers and bends to meet her mouth, sweeter this time, slower. She will be loved for the rest of her life, she knows it clearly in that moment. She shall have passion and strong arms to hold her and a gentle heart to love her beneath all of his armour. 

She will never fail him. She will never falter in her own affections or trust. 

It is no small thing that he has given her, to trust her not with his life but with his heart; as scarred and damaged as it is, kept locked away for so many years. She shall keep him safe in her own way, even as he shall protect her. She shall ensure that he is never without respect or trust or love again, that he always knows his worth as a man, that he never has cause to doubt that he is loved. 

So she gives of herself to him then, pours it all into the kiss and hopes that he will understand. It shall not be so very long now before they must face the outcomes of their decisions and for the first time, Sansa feels a strange sense of calm at the prospect. She is ready and eager for it to be done with, to know what her destiny will be so that she may begin living it rather than waiting and hoping. 

He breaks from her, his head bent so that he can meet her eyes. “It’s a risk to be here together at this time, you’d best be going. Shall we have an opportunity tomorrow?”

“I hope we might.” Sansa breathes. “I will send Arya with a message, once I know when we may meet. It is… I have missed you badly, it is difficult to leave you now.”

“Aye,” He agrees, “I’ve thought of little else on the road back. I’m to speak to your kingly brother soon, am I not? I’ll have you to myself soon enough and no more meeting in the shadows with one eye to the time. I’m to have you to myself soon, have you for my very own.”

It is a statement and a question both and Sansa nods eagerly, taking both of his hands in hers and bringing them to her cheeks. “As soon as you wish,” She tells him, “A week perhaps, to make our plans and settle things.” She holds his hands there, warm upon her, and tilts her face to kiss them both. “We shall not need to wait much longer,” she promises him. 

They will have time tomorrow to talk and more besides and Sansa feels a flutter within her at the thought of it. She has thought of him constantly in the weeks that he has been gone, and of what might happen once he arrived back. She is ready, ready for more, ready for them to be one another’s in truth. She does not want any barriers to exist between them, does not wish to stop at caresses and kisses. It is unladylike, but she has realized that that means very little in the face of a real and passionate love. 

“Until tomorrow then,” He replies, his lips twisted into an expectant grin, scars twisting with them.

“Until tomorrow,” She replies and stands on her toes to kiss his lips before hurrying away, out of the godswood and back to the Keep where she is expected. 

**

They settle in the Lord’s Solar, Talisa with her feet upon a stool since these days they are often swollen and aching. Robb enters in a set of fresh clothes, his hair still damp from his bath and settles beside her. 

They wait expectantly as he takes refreshment from the tray that Lady Catelyn has ordered delivered to the room until he finally sets his plate aside and turns to them. 

“It was not as easy a battle as that at Torrhen’s Square, judging by Clegane’s report of that.” Robb begins with no preamble and Sansa keeps her expression calm at the mention of his name. “Asha Greyjoy is a capable commander and without the help of the Mormonts in destroying her longboats, she most likely would have escaped us.”

“And has she spoken?” Their mother breaks in, “Has she revealed anything about her brother, or about…”

The names of their own brothers remain unspoken, the hope still too raw and frail to allow them to be said aloud.

Robb shakes his head in a gesture of frustration. “That is what I wished to speak to you about. Asha Greyjoy remains mainly silent, but what she has revealed to me is that neither did Theon ever return to the Iron Islands after the sack of Winterfell and nor were any prisoners brought there. If she is telling the truth then this is worrying indeed.”

“Where could he have gone that our bannermen would not recognize him?” Sansa asks thoughtfully, “Unless he has taken a boat and gone further beyond our reach, across the Narrow Sea?”

“It is possible,” Robb admits, “But his sister believes that he never made the coast, and none of their ships carried him hence. He may have been able to hide while our forces were in the Riverlands, but surely now that our bannermen are returned to their own Castles and Keeps there is no place for him.”

“Could he have gone to the Wall, to take the Black?” Lady Catelyn asks sharply, “By the law of our land he would be beyond the reach of us then.”

Robb’s eyes flash briefly, “Jon would never allow it, for the love that he bore Bran and Rickon.” He counters, and then nods suddenly. “And Jon would know it, he is Lord Commander upon the Wall now, elected some time past.”

Sansa gasps and Arya gives an excited exclamation. “Really?” She asks Robb, “Do you think he will be able to visit us? Oh it would be wonderful to see him again!”

Lady Catelyn’s expression is tight, and Sansa knows that her mother does not consider it to be such a wonderful possibility at all. She cannot blame her lady mother for her feelings, it would be difficult to acknowledge the mistake of a beloved husband, evidence of a betrayal. 

Yet however he was conceived, Jon is their brother and their father’s blood, and Sansa believes that Lord Eddard would want them to stand together, as the pack must do in order to survive the Winter. She wishes that her mother might see this as well, and find it in her heart to accept their half-brother at last. 

“He is on the way here as we speak.” Robb announces calmly, his eyes flickering to his mother’s face to see her reaction. “I received a raven from him shortly before we set out for Deepwood Motte asking to visit upon official Night’s Watch business, a plea for our assistance. House Stark has always been a friend of the Night’s Watch and will always be so, and I asked him to come with all due haste, knowing that he should arrive shortly after we returned.”

It is a cruel thing to have concealed it from their mother until the visit is about to occur, and yet Sansa understands why her brother has done so, and why he has couched Jon’s visit in official terms. There is no option for refusal, and Jon will be welcomed to Winterfell with all due courtesy in his capacity as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch rather than as he had left, as the Lord’s bastard son. 

There is gladness in her heart at the thought of seeing him, of seeing what he has made of himself out of the shadow of his position within their family, always the outsider. It was not right, the way he was treated, no matter what society expected. Arya had the right of it, none of it is fair and Sansa pledges that when Jon comes to them she shall be the sister that she should have been to him, in whatever little time they have. In seeking to spare her mother’s feelings, she injured his instead, always focusing upon the differences between them rather than the bond. 

“Oh it will be good to see him.” Sansa says, meaning every word of it, and hopes that her mother may forgive her. She hopes that on seeing Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son again, that Lady Catelyn may find it in her to be kind to him for the sake of her husband’s memory.

“We shall welcome him with all due honour, as befitting his post.” Lady Catelyn offers, her lips tight, her face drawn, before she sighs. “I also have news that I must share with you, and I am unsure how it might relate to your own.”

She briefly shares the news of Lady Brienne’s visit, and of what she had learned about Jaime Lannister and his brief captivity and release at Harrenhall.

Robb’s brow wrinkles as he thinks upon it, concern obvious upon his features. 

“Roose Bolton never mentioned having the Kingslayer within his grasp, nor releasing him.” Robb comments, “I had sent messengers, asking that if recaptured he should be sent back to me immediately, and I know now that my command was ignored.”

“It would be folly to trust the Boltons,” Lady Catelyn counsels him, “They bent the knee to House Stark only when there was no other choice, and have given their share of treachery over the years. You must keep close watch on them.”

Robb sighs, looking weary and old beyond his years. “The last thing we need in the North now is to fight among ourselves, and yet I cannot ignore it. Ramsey Bolton has already proven himself to be both treacherous and cruel in the case of the Hornwood lands, and the rumours of his other activities are disturbing to say the least. I shall have to think carefully on this, and consult with those of my bannermen whom I trust implicitly.”

“And now we shall leave you to rest,” Lady Catelyn announces, standing up and gesturing to her daughters to do the same. 

They make their way back to their room, Arya waiting until they are inside with the door closed before she begins to speak excitedly.

“Jon is coming! Oh Sansa, I’ve longed to see him so much, to hear him call me ‘little sister’ again. Just wait until I show him what progress I’ve made with Needle!” 

Her sister’s eyes are shining with happiness and Sansa can’t help but smile along with her, “It will be good to see Jon again,” she agrees, “I am so happy to hear that he has been made Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Father would have been proud of him.”

They sit in silence for a moment, remembering the departed. If their father could see them now then perhaps he would be happy with what they have made of themselves. Sansa hopes that he would be proud of her and of the way she’s grown. 

“You won’t leave before Jon’s come, will you?” Arya asks suddenly, “I would so very badly like to see him and if you should need to leave before that, if I was to actually come with you…”

“Do you still wish to?” Sansa asks Arya seriously, “It is something that you need to consider carefully. If Robb should not agree, we would be estranged from the family. If you come with us, then there will be no going back. We have only so very recently come home again, become a family again. If Bran and Rickon are alive then you may never be able to see them again. Even Jon...”

“Jon would not abandon us, no matter what.” Arya states confidently. “Although he has his duties now and I do not know when we would see him after this visit. I’ve thought about it seriously, Sansa, really I have. What future is there for me here? In a few years I will be married to someone for the sake of an alliance and who knows what type of man he’ll be? That’s not what I want, what I want…” She pauses and takes Sansa’s hand, completely serious for once. “I want what you have. I want someone who’ll let me be as I am and love me without wanting me to make me into something else.”

“Then we will ensure that you have it.” Sansa replies, squeezing her sister’s hand. 

She will ask Sandor to delay his request to Robb for her hand until after her brother Jon has arrived, to be able to see him and say a final farewell if it comes to that. It will be a matter of no more than a week or two, but she hopes that it might be enough time to make peace with her family and to bring them to terms with her decision.

She is of the North, and it is here that she feels strongest. The blood that runs through her veins is that of the First Men and it is that which gives her courage. 

It is that courage that will see her through.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks to Littlefeather who really helped me with this chapter by prodding me when I needed it providing helpful advice!
> 
> Also warnings of underage for this part.

She steals away to meet him before dawn breaks, the shadows heavy upon her as she makes her way to the First Keep. 

They were not able to meet on the previous day as they had planned. Sansa’s mother had kept her close with some excuse of work or another until evening had already fallen and there was no longer any chance to see him. Sansa wonders if her mother suspects more than she had previously thought, if she had noticed the glances between them along the length of the hall as they sat to dinner the evening he arrived back. Still, her mother cannot watch her always, and Arya was able to pass a message to Sandor to meet her in the early morning if possible, as early as may be. 

Her cloak pushed up to cover her hair, Sansa makes her way across the courtyard, seeing her way by starlight and a thin moon. There are still at least two hours until the sun rises, but she knows the way by heart and when she reaches the old tower she makes her way up the stairs slowly, feeling her way along the wall and careful not to miss a step. 

He is there already when she finally arrives, a candle lit in the corner and an old cloth draped over the nails near the window to block any light. Sandor is leaning against the wall as he waits and he straightens, giving her a crooked grin. 

“Have you been waiting long?” Sansa asks him, shutting and bolting the door behind her and crossing to meet him. 

“Only ten minutes or so,” Sandor replies, reaching out a hand for her in which she gladly places her own. “And what shall you say to your lady mother, if she searches for you and finds you out of bed?”

“That I had gone to pray in the godswood.” Sansa replies, “Though she never looks for me before the morning meal. We have this time at least.”

“And too little at that.” He rasps, stroking a cheek with one finger. “Is it too soon to go to your brother? I would have it done.”

She leans into his touch, leans into him, and winds her arms around his waist, tucks her head under his chin and against his chest. 

“Not yet, our brother Jon is due to visit and Arya wishes to wait for his arrival. I would also like to see him, if only to say goodbye. It may be that he would understand, that he would… speak our part to Robb.”

Sandor says nothing, only kisses the top of her head, a sign of his agreement to the change in plans. 

“And until then we’ll have Lady Stark playing mother hen I suppose,” he chuckles harshly, “It’ll be the death of me, all this waiting. You’ve managed to teach me patience along with all the rest.”

It is an easy thing to rub her cheek against his chest, to allow her hand to slip inside his tunic and rest upon his abdomen, smoothing small patterns there. It is an easy thing to stand upon her toes to kiss his jaw softly as she feels his grip tighten upon her instinctively, to bring her mouth to his ear to whisper a little shyly.

“I do not wish to wait.”

She can feel him harden against her at the words, another instinct, and she is not scared, though a little nervous to be sure. 

He grips her arms tightly, and tilts his face to look down at her, searching her expression intently. “Are you certain?” He rasps, conflicting emotions upon his face. “Are you certain that you wish this, that you are ready?”

She sees the battle in him, the need for her warring with his desire to do right by her, to have her as his wife before taking her. 

She is sure, and she is ready besides. She has longed to know what it would be like to be his in entirety, to have all of him for herself. She finds it appropriate that she will give herself to him in the hour of the wolf, surely there is no better hour in which to choose her own fate.

“More certain than anything.” She tells him, and he bends to claim her mouth, gripping her shoulders tightly as he does so. The pressure of his fingers is such that she wonders if she will have bruises there later, but she will not tell him to lessen his grip. She wishes in this moment to be held tightly, to be claimed completely. 

He has waited for her, waited for months until it was safe, waited for months until she was ready, and even now when the time is finally upon them she can feel the restraint in him, can feel him holding himself back so that they might take things slowly. 

He kisses her desperately, his tongue upon hers, his hands in her hair, and she cannot help it when she bites his lip, when her nails dig into his back; she is so eager to hold and to feel, to finally have. She tugs at his tunic, lifting it up that she might feel him properly and he breaks from her, quickly lifting it over his head and throwing it to one corner before claiming her quickly once again, his lips upon her neck, her jaw, her ear, any skin that he might be able to reach. 

He allows his hands to roam freely for once, caressing her breasts or gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her as if he’s afraid she might otherwise slip away. There is as much nervousness in him as there is in her, though she knows that it is not for the act itself. She knows his fears, knows he worries that this may turn out to be false, that he may lose her yet whether it be through his actions or another’s. He is eager to claim her and yet once she is truly his the feared loss would be all the greater. 

She has no words to reassure him, so she kisses him instead, tangles her fingers in his hair, grips his waist as he backs her up to the wall, lifting her, one hand under her leg to support her as he brings her up to his height, his hips grinding into hers with a heavy need. 

She reaches down with one hand to unlace his breeches and he pulls them down himself, kicking them aside when they are pooled around his ankles. Naked, he is a vision in the low candlelight and she allows her eyes to roam over him, presses her hands against the warmth of his skin and runs them down the length of his torso, reveling in the feel of the muscle beneath them. He breathes in sharply and pulls back to look at her, setting her back down on the ground and searching her face for confirmation. He is vulnerable and she sees it clearly, raises her hands to cup both sides of his face and stands on her toes to kiss him. 

“I love you,” She whispers to him, and his lips twitch as he leans down to touch his forehead to hers.

“You’ll be mine,” He rasps, “You know that, little bird? If you give yourself to be then you’ll be mine forever, I won’t let anybody take you away from me. Not your kingly brother, not your mother, not anybody. You understand that?”

She nods and tilts her head to kiss him, a gentle reassuring pressure, reaches out her hands to find his and entangles their fingers. 

“And you’ll be mine,” She replies with all the seriousness she can muster, “And you’d best never forget it.”

He laughs at that, almost joyously, and reaches out to undo the ties of her cloak, placing it nearby before he turns his attention to the rest of her clothes. His hands are shaking slightly as he raises her gown to slowly remove it, and he sets it carefully aside. Her shift and smallclothes go soon after that, removed no less carefully, and as she stands naked in front of him, his hands warm and heavy upon her bare hips, she can feel him trembling. 

She cannot help but blush as he looks upon her, his eyes raking over her figure, lingering upon her breasts, the curve of her buttocks, the region below her hips. He does not speak to tell her that she is perfect, that she is beautiful, but she feels it in the slight shake in his hands upon her, in the heavy lingering kiss that he places upon her shoulder, in the darkness in his eyes. 

She is his, and so how can she feel anything less than beautiful in his arms?

He is careful, so very careful with her, as if afraid that she might break. He spreads his cloak for them and lays her down, suddenly gentle and slow, his hands and mouth lingering on her, taking his time to explore her. The way he touches her is almost reverential, a different type of worship, and perhaps the only one that he will ever embrace. 

He does his best to make her ready, to ensure that she has her pleasure before he takes his own. She touches him in turn, lets her hands have their fill of him, enjoys feeling him gasp against her skin and hearing him groan. There is still much to learn about each other’s bodies but using his mouth and hands he approaches the task with the same dedication he would any battle, leaving her moaning and panting, unsure whether to turn her face away in embarrassment as a lady would or urge him on. They both try so very hard to be quiet lest someone hear them but it is so very, very difficult to remain so. 

When finally she is ready and it is time to come together properly, he hesitates, suddenly uncertain, cupping her face as he leans over her. “It will hurt,” He tells her, “I’ll try to be done quickly, to spare you the pain. I don’t want to hurt you, I…”

She smiles, and reaches up her hand to touch his own cheek, mirroring his gesture. 

“You won’t hurt me.” She tells him, allowing her trust in him to shine clear upon her face, and he finally allows himself to take her.

She grips him at the first thrust, her nails digging into his back so hard that there’ll be marks left, tears coming to her eyes at the sharp pain of it. He waits until he knows she is ready, until she nods, to move again, gentle and slow, restraining himself that he might not hurt her. There is pain to be sure, but a sweet ache as well and a pressure that she can feel building inside her despite it. He grips her tightly, murmurs words of love and reassurance as he moves in her, presses his lips to her skin again and again as she clings to him. 

It is over quickly as he had promised, his release coming to him with a grunt and a long shudder. They are both sweaty and sticky and he collapses onto her, his large body heavy and easily covering hers. She does not care about the mess or about the pain, all she cares about is that he is hers, and that at last they know each other completely. He shifts himself, moving to the side so as not to hurt her, curling around her protectively and laying his head upon her breast. She wraps one arm around him, and brings the other up to stroke his hair. She feels him breathe in deeply under her hands and thinks that this… this is true. 

**

Afterwards they lie upon his cloak, hers covering them to keep them warm, her head tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms wound tightly around her, hands clutching her with an iron grip as if afraid that she’ll slip away if he loosens them. 

She aches, the pain a dull throb, but she is sleepy and comfortable and it is a wonderful thing to be able to lie with him like this, with no barriers between them. She is happy, she realizes; she knows now, knows how it is to be with him in this way, knows how it may be when there is not the pain to distract her from her own pleasure. 

She is relaxed and comfortable but his arms are tight around her and she can feel his throat working, gulping, from where her face lies against it. She presses a gentle kiss there and snuggles in against him, enjoying the heat that radiates off his body.

“You’re mine.” Sandor rasps suddenly, and she tilts her head slightly backwards to meet his eyes. “You’re mine and I’ve never had, I’ve never…” He kisses her hard upon the brow, brings his hand up to hold the back of her head. “They’ll not take you from me, not ever. Gods help me but I’d stop at nothing to keep you with me, nothing.” 

He is shaking and she shushes him, kisses him gently and sweetly, wraps her arms around him and rocks them back and forth as if to calm him. 

“I would not allow myself to be taken from you.” She reassures him, “I am yours, as you are mine. Within a matter of days everyone shall know it, and they will have no choice in the matter. You need not fear losing me.”

He kisses her then, first fiercely and then more slowly, whispering his love for her and allowing his hands to caress her but not taking their lovemaking any further, knowing that she would be too sore and that their time is too short. 

When the candle is guttering and the light in the room beginning to change from black to grey they dress, each helping the other. He assists her with her cloak, draping it upon her shoulders, and she smiles, thinking that soon it shall be his instead that sits there. 

They kiss each other languidly, his hands smoothing her skirts and then her hair to make her presentable before he lets her go, reluctance clear upon his face. 

“We shall find time somehow, I promise it.” Sansa tells him, “I shall look for you until we can.”

“Take your goodsister into your confidence,” He advises her, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear with his hand. “You will ache, and with her healing knowledge she should know what to do to ease it, as well as brew you a moontea.”

“I will do so,” Sansa promises him, kissing him once more. He holds her tightly then, unwilling to let her go. Finally he appears to gain a hold over himself, kissing her one final time before he sends her on her way.

She is back in her own bed before the household rises, briefly waking Arya before her younger sister rolls over and goes back to sleep. Never intending to, Sansa drifts off to sleep herself, rising only when she hears the rooster crow, the familiar sounds of the castle beginning to come to life rising from the courtyard below.

It is only once she has ordered a hot bath, stripped and stepped into it gingerly, wincing slightly as she does so that Arya seems to come to a realization, eyeing her consideringly. 

“How long were you gone for this morning?” Arya asks Sansa suspiciously when her wash is done, “I fell back asleep after you left.”

Sansa laughs, the sound coming to her freely. “You’re too young to know the answer to what you’re really asking.” She teases Arya, laughing even harder when her sister throws a pillow at her in reply. 

Robb is already out and about as is his habit and leaving Arya behind, Sansa visits Talisa, whispering the truth softly to her amid blushes. Her goodsister provides her with advice and remedies and mixes her a tea, waiting until she’s drunk it to throw the herbs she’s made it from into the fire. Sansa leaves her goodsister’s room knowing more than she did previously and collects Arya, making their way downstairs together arm in arm to break their fast, where they meet their mother at the table. 

Lady Catelyn begins reciting a long list of tasks that need to be accomplished that day but Sansa only smiles and nods complacently, careful to betray no hint of discomfit. 

Let her mother keep her busy throughout the day if it gives Lady Catelyn a false confidence in her whereabouts, she will meet him in the hour of the wolf or the hour of the owl, when the night is darkest and deepest.

Crossing the courtyard with Arya on some errand of her mother’s, she sees him and pauses, stopping to watch him as he trains with his men, admiring the speed and power of his strokes as he rains down blows upon their shields, his agility as he sidesteps or raises his own shield to meet one. 

There is a joy in him today as he works with the men, she can hear his harsh laughter ringing out over the courtyard at some jape or other, the sudden lightness in him. 

Gods but she loves him, can scarcely bear to be apart from him now that they are once more within the same castle. She craves for his calloused fingers and chapped lips, for kisses that might be alternately demanding and soft, for the feel of his skin under her own hands, for an eventual joining of heat and sweat and a sweet feverish ache. Now that she finally knows, she craves all the more. 

As if feeling her eyes upon him he breaks off from the fight, lifting the visor on his helm and taking one involuntary step towards her before he collects himself, stopping and merely nodding once as if in respect and reluctantly turning back to his task. 

By the teachings of the septons, she should burn in the fires of all the seven hells for what she’s done. 

If that’s to be the price for this then so be it. 

She burns for him as it is.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

It is almost three years since Jon has been at Winterfell, a home he’s longed for that was never quite completely his. 

He had not expected to return to Winterfell so soon, and certainly not in the manner that he now arrives, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and with an honour guard escorting him. 

He used to dream of it, of one day demonstrating what he was worth; but in his dreams his father was always there to greet him and tell him how proud he was, to welcome him as a proper member of the family. Now Lord Eddard Stark lies in the Crypts of Winterfell, and sweet Bran and little Rickon are also gone. 

Jon is eager to see his remaining siblings, Robb and Arya and Sansa, though he expects no warm welcome from Lady Stark. He reminds himself that his brother is a king now and that his sisters are princesses, and although he might have risen high himself he’s still a bastard. He can’t suppress a chuckle at the idea of Arya as a princess and wonders if she still loves swords and stories of battle as much as she did when he last saw her. 

Riding in from the Northern Gate with his fellow brothers behind him, Jon barely has time to mark the damage and the repairs taking place before there is a shriek of joy and he sees Arya running towards him. He dismounts, laughing, and scoops her up as she launches herself at him. 

“Little sister,” He names her as he hugs her tightly, “You’ve grown for certain since I last saw you, though it seems you’re yet to become a young lady.”

He raises an eyebrow at her and laughing, she punches him in the arm for his jape. 

“We’ve been waiting for you ever since Robb told us you were coming!” Arya announces happily as Jon puts her back on the ground. “How many days will you stay for?”

“Only for four days.” Jon tells her and she makes a disappointed face. “I cannot help it, my place is at the Wall and I need to be back there as soon as possible. I would not have been able to come if our need were not so dire.”

“Need? Is it the wildlings? Tell me what you’ve seen there!” Arya exclaims eagerly but Jon is distracted from his reply by the sight of Sansa hurrying to reach him. 

“Oh how good it is to see you again, brother!” She greets him happily, hugging him tightly. Jon is stunned for a moment, for Sansa he has always been her half-brother, the distinction so carefully preserved. 

“It is good to see you too, Sansa.” He greets her warmly as he hugs her back. “Unlike Arya here, I can see that you certainly have grown into a young lady since the last time I saw you.”

Sansa laughs warmly, her face lit up with happiness, and she and Arya share a grin that hints at some secret. Jon watches them in fascination, at the strong bond that now seems to exist between them. He remembers the way they used to bicker before they left Winterfell, the differences between them. 

“Robb has ridden to the Winter Town to see the progress of the repairs there, he’ll be disappointed to have missed your arrival.” Sansa informs him, “Let the stableboys take the horses and we’ll show you to your rooms.” She turns to address the rest of the men then with a polite smile. “We are still in the process of repairing the Castle, but we hope that you will all be comfortable. Winterfell knows well the debt that it owes to the Night’s Watch for ensuring our safety.” 

The men murmur and nod their thanks and Jon hides a smile at his sister’s adept ability to act as lady of the castle. There is something different about her from when they said goodbye. Where before she been always prim, wanting to prove herself to be a proper lady, now she is easy in her manner and filled with a true grace. Jon cannot help but think that the years have changed his sister Sansa for the better though he suspects that a good deal of pain and sorrow may have made her into who she is today.

Sansa tucks her hand through his arm and turns to lead him towards the Great Keep, Arya quickly grabbing the hand on his other side. 

“And you’ll get to meet our goodsister Talisa, though I think Robb would want to be the one to introduce you!” Arya tells him excitedly, “Mother is with her right now, she’s been feeling a bit poorly now that her time is almost here.”

Jon nods, knowing that Lady Stark is probably avoiding greeting him until she must, but he’s glad to have the warm company of his sisters for now as opposed to their mother’s disapproval and chill. 

He directs Ghost towards the godswood and the direwolf pads away silently, watched by both Arya and Sansa. He sees the sadness in Sansa’s eyes and the longing in Arya’s and knows that nothing will ever replace the loss of either of their direwolves, just as their father and brothers may never be replaced. 

So much has changed in the time they have been parted, but rather than focus only on the bad there is good as well. Robb has married and started a family; Sansa is almost a woman grown, an easy grace in her now; Arya has set aside the petty rivalries of her youth and no longer seems to see the need to prove herself, though he is glad to see that she has the same strength of will he remembers. 

Sansa and Arya show Jon and his men to their rooms and he dismisses his brothers from the Night’s Watch, telling them to rest and that he shall see them at the evening meal. He takes the time to wash and change his clothing before rejoining his sisters, knocking on the door to the room they had pointed out to him earlier which they now share. That had been another surprise, that Arya and Sansa might actually choose to share a room when they could have their own. 

Arya opens the door, grinning, and Jon notices that she now has Needle strapped into a belt around her waist. 

“So you’ve been keeping up with your needlework while I’ve been gone, have you?” He asks, reaching out to ruffle her hair affectionately while she grins up at him.

Sansa joins them and as they walk out and down the stairs, and she trades a meaningful look with Arya. 

“Her skill has certainly come in handy,” Sansa comments, “It’s proved lucky for us that you chose to give Arya such a gift. You’ll need to hear her tales of bravery later.”

Arya’s eyes sparkle at that, “You shouldn’t underestimate Sansa either, Jon. Wait until you hear the song the minstrels have made for us, I’ll tell one of the men to play it tonight.”

Jon looks back and forth between them, unable to understand the joke they seem to be sharing. 

“A song?” He asks, amusement in his tone. “Am I to believe that the minstrels have started composing songs on my little sisters? Has Sansa taken up sword fighting as well then?”

“Oh no,” Arya responds seriously. “Daggers. As for the song, well, The Stark Sisters and their Blades should soon be famous throughout the entire kingdom. I only hope that stinky old Walder Frey hears it soon.”

His sisters are still giggling as they reach the bottom of the stairs. Heading towards the courtyard to await Robb’s arrival, Arya excitedly describes the ambush by the Freys and how they had both fought them off.

There is so much that Jon doesn’t know about the time that they’ve been apart, and about what has befallen them all. He had never known that his sisters had been in such danger until this moment. Robb’s reply to his raven had been brief and the news that Jon receives at the Wall has always been months too late. His sisters have changed and matured in the time they’ve been parted from him, and he knows it will take time to understand exactly how this has taken place. He does not know exactly what they’ve been through or what they’ve seen, though he can guess well enough what horrors might have been included in that. They have witnessed the death of their father, and lived through captivity and cruelties. If they have changed from the last time he saw them then it is no wonder at all. 

“Though it was certainly not funny at the time,” Sansa comments seriously when Arya’s tale is done. “I was scared out of my wits and sure that we were going to die.”

“And we probably would’ve if Sandor hadn’t arrived to save us.” Arya replies, her mirth suddenly gone. “You should’ve seen the way that he cut them down, Jon.”

“Sandor?” Jon questions Arya, momentarily confused. Suddenly he remembers the story that had reached him on the Wall, that the Hound had freed his sister Sansa from the Lannisters and brought her back to her family. He had wondered at it at the time, believing that it must be at least partially false since there was no good reason for the man to do so. “Then he really did join Robb’s cause?”

“Oh yes, he’s helped win a great many battles for us and retake Torrhen’s Square and Deepwood Motte.” Arya replies happily, though Sansa is noticeably quiet, her eyes upon the ground. Arya waves suddenly at a figure across the courtyard who is currently putting the other men through their paces, beckoning him over. “You can meet him while we wait for Robb.”

Jon has never formally met the man, though he remembers him from King Robert’s visit to Winterfell. Large, and perpetually angry and mocking, he had been Prince Joffrey’s sworn shield. 

As the man approaches, removing his helm, Jon sees that it is indeed Sandor Clegane. Just as large as Jon remembers him, though far less fearsome to Jon now, after some of the Wildlings and Giants he has seen. Arya is grinning happily and as Jon glances towards Sansa, expecting to see a measure of distaste for the man upon his ladylike sister’s face, he is shocked to discover that that is not the case at all. Instead, Sansa watches the man approach with a gaze filled with longing, before ducking her head, blushing. 

Sandor Clegane stops in front of them, his longsword now sheathed and his gaze considering. Jon watches the slight shift of the man’s eyes towards Sansa, before he focuses his attention upon Jon instead. 

“Lord Commander Snow,” Sandor Clegane greets him, with the same rasp of steel on stone that Jon remembers. 

“Clegane,” Jon greets him in return. “Arya has just been regaling me with the tale of your rescue of my sisters during the Freys’ attack. You have my thanks for keeping them safe and for returning Sansa to our family.”

The older man nods once at that, Jon notices that his eyes once again rest upon Sansa, his expression softening slightly, and wonders at it. 

“Aye well, your brother is a better king than my last.” Sandor Clegane responds shortly, before he nods once in a mark of acknowledgement. “I’ll be back to training the lads now, if you or your men should fancy sparring while you’re here then you’re welcome to join us.” 

His eyes once again dart to Sansa then and for a moment Jon sees her guard fall as her expression opens, a decided warmth directed at the scarred man. For a moment Clegane’s face is transformed completely as his lips quirk into something that might be described as a smile, before he seems to remember himself, turning and heading back to his men. 

Jon watches the man walks away, Sansa’s gaze trailing his path back.

Before Jon has time to process it, Sansa turns to him, beaming. “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell us about your time beyond the Wall and how you came to be elected Lord Commander?” She suggests, “I would so love to hear of your battles and bravery, we’re both so very proud of you.”

Jon can’t help but smile in return and allows her to lead them to a seat. With his sisters sitting to either side of him, he begins to tell them about his arrival at the wall, of the friendships he slowly formed, becoming steward to the Old Bear, the ranging beyond the Wall, his time with the wildlings and his return. There are things that he does not mention, such as Ygritte, but by the end they know most of what occurred, both listening to him with rapt attention, occasionally peppering him with questions about aspects of what he has mentioned. 

It is such a simple thing to be able to sit with his sisters in the wan Autumn sun, telling stories, and yet he has missed moments like these. Although his brothers of the Night’s Watch are his new family, he will never truly be able to let go of the bond between him and his blood brothers and sisters. 

As he finishes his tale, a handmaiden approaches them from the Keep, apologizing for her disturbance and informing Sansa of some work that needs her attention.

Sansa gives Jon a regretful smile. “I’m sorry, brother.” She tells him gently, “With Mother occupied with Talisa’s care, many of the daily tasks and preparations now fall to me. I’ll leave you with Arya but we shall speak later again later.” 

She hugs him impulsively before she leaves, smiling as she hurries back to the Keep to complete her task.

“Well, little sister.” Jon addresses Arya, looking down at her speculatively. “It seems that much has changed since I’ve seen you, I don’t even know what I should ask you first. You and Sansa are friends now?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, Jon.” Arya tells him cheerfully and for a moment Jon is painfully reminded of Ygritte, You know nothing, Jon Snow echoing in his mind.

“I’m glad to see you both on good terms,” Jon tells her gently, “And Sansa, she seems to have changed since I last saw her. Still a perfect lady, but there’s something…”

Arya snorts and Jon gives her a sharp look, suspecting that there’s much that she’s not telling him. Arya changes her expression to one that’s more contrite, though Jon can see that there’s something that’s amused her in his statement. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” Arya tells him earnestly then, “There’s so many things that I want to tell you.”

“I’ve missed you too, little sister.” Jon tells her, his throat suddenly tight. “So we’ll sit here until Robb comes back and you can tell me everything that’s happened to you since you left Winterfell.”

And so she does, telling him about the journey South and their time in King’s Landing, her waterdancing lessons with Syrio Forel, and of their father’s death. Arya speaks of her escape from there and journey north with Yoren and the recruits of the Night’s Watch. She tells him of her friends, Gendry and Hot Pie, of their captivity and the Faceless Man, Jaqen H’ghar who helped them. Of escape and capture again by the Brotherhood without Banners. As she speaks, Jon knows that there are bits that Arya leaves out, parts that are perhaps too horrible to repeat. He wishes that she could tell them to him, but at the same time his stomach twists as he thinks about what they might be.

Finally she tells him of Sansa and Sandor Clegane coming to take her from the Brotherhood, and of the beginning of their journey North. Jon notices that from that point onwards Sandor Clegane seems to feature heavily in Arya’s tales, always shown favourably, whether it be returning her sword while deathly ill, saving her and Sansa from danger or reclaiming Torrhen’s Square with a small force of men. 

To hear Arya, it almost sounds like the man is the truest knight that lived, her own personal savior. 

As he listens to Arya tell him about the rebuilding of Winterfell, Jon watches as Sansa walks across the courtyard with a burden in her arms, evidently on some errand. Sandor Clegane has already dismissed his men from their training and as she passes he stands, joins her in two short strides and takes the burden from her arms easily. Even from this distance, Jon can see the way his sister smiles up at the scarred man, the way their hands linger when they touch. He’s no longer a stranger to love to not be able to recognize it when he sees it. They set off together for wherever Sansa’s destination may be, side by side and perhaps a little too close. 

“So that’s the way of it then,” Jon mutters under his breath, drawing Arya’s attention. 

“What’s that, Jon?” She asks him, her face a picture of perfect innocence although her eyes hold a certain mischief. 

“You think you’re very smart, don’t you little sister?” He asks her, amused at her attempts to maneuver him into a particular opinion. “You’ve forgotten that your brother is now Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Arya replies, trying to stop herself from grinning. 

“Oh don’t you now?” Jon asks, amused by both Arya’s attempts at manipulation and the truth that he’s begun to suspect about his other sister. “Nothing you might want to tell me about Sansa then? Some secret you’ve been keeping for her?”

Arya grins suddenly, “I knew you weren’t an idiot.” She tells him, “Actually I was hoping that you…”

She’s cut off by Robb’s arrival, riding in from the gate he spots his brother and vaults off his horse, rushing forward to meet Jon in a strong hug. 

“Snow.” Robb greets him after their old fashion, grinning all the while. 

“Stark.” Jon replies, unable to help the smile that comes to his face. “Or should I be calling you ‘Your Grace’ now?”

“Gods no, the girls tend to only call me that when they’re angry at me.” Robb replies with a grimace. “I’m sorry I missed your arrival. Are you well rested?”

“Arya and Sansa have looked after me.” Jon replies, smiling. “How about you introduce me to this goodsister of mine and I’ll pay my respects to your lady mother. First however, I would like to visit to our lord father.”

They walk down into the crypts of Winterfell together, to pay their respects at Eddard Stark’s tomb.

**

Jon finds Robb’s wife to be a sweet lady with a good measure of intelligence and a spark within her. Now in the last month of her pregnancy she has been confined to her rooms except for meal times by the Maester’s orders, and appears to be quite frustrated by it. 

Lady Catelyn Stark’s welcome of him is predictably cool, though she gives him all the honour that is due his position as the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. In return, Jon gives her his condolences for her loss, as gently as he is able. 

She is stunned, and for a moment she looks at him in such a way that makes him think she sees him as a reminder of her husband rather than only as his one mistake. Yet the moment passes and Jon knows that he and Lady Stark shall never truly be on good terms. 

“Shall we speak?” He asks Robb when the courtesies have been concluded, and they move to the Lord’s Solar, where they will not be disturbed. 

When they are settled, each with a drink in hand, Robb speaks. “It is wonderful to see you, Jon, but I know you would not have left your post if there was not some great need. You mentioned it in your raven to me.”

“You’re right.” Jon admits, “I am here only for a few days before I must return, but I needed to speak to you in person to know that you will believe what I must tell you. There are things that no man can believe if told of it by raven alone.”

Jon speaks long on what he has seen beyond the Wall, of the Others and of men who rise from the dead and can only be defeated with Fire or Dragonglass. He tells Robb of too few men to guard the Wall and repair it, and of his fear of what is to come. 

“They are the Great Enemy, the real enemy of all mankind, and it has been so long since they last came that we have forgotten them.” Jon finishes, “They are the reason that the Wall was built, not the wildlings. We have forgotten and allowed our defenses to drop, but they are waiting.”

Robb shivers, and strides towards the fire, adding another log to it. “You were right to come, Jon. This is not the type of tale that can be told by raven, and nor would I have believed it if I had not heard the evidence of it from your own lips.”

“We have a desperate need of men to hold the wall, and craftsmen who can make repairs to it and provide us with good weaponry and armour.” Jon tells his brother bluntly. “They need not take the vows if they don’t wish to, I’ll take them however they wish to come. We haven’t received the proper tithes either, for many years. It will be a miracle if our food stocks last the whole winter.”

Robb nods, his lord’s face on. “You shall have it all, I promise you, Jon. I’ll see to it that you have the men and that the lords are reminded of their duty to tithe. The North Remembers. We may have forgotten the ancient truths we once knew, but I shall remind them all.”

“Thank you.” Jon replies simply, “It is needed, or else the North could easily fall to this threat. We might cut our ties of kinship when we join the Night’s Watch, but I had hoped that your position would allow you to help me.”

“The bond between us will never be cut,” Robb replies seriously and for a moment Jon is almost overcome. A bastard he may be, but he knows that the Starks will always be his family along with his new brothers. Robb sighs then, “Though for how long I will wear this crown I do not know.”

“What is it?” Jon asks him seriously, “Tell me of your troubles as I have told you mine.”

“We have won back the North and given the Lannisters a fitting reply, but we lost many men doing so.” Robb replies wearily, “We are surrounded by enemies on all sides. The Ironborn have been driven off and I hope that by holding Asha Greyjoy as a hostage we may ensure their good behavior but that is no guarantee. There are the Freys to our South and to the East there is Roose Bolton, who gives me reason to doubt his fealty. Should he rebel or seek common cause with the Freys then we will be drawn back into a bloody battle and I do not know if we can win the next one. Now you tell me that Stannis is also at the Wall, and the gods only know how long he shall be content to remain there before challenging us.”

Jon had heard of the Freys from Arya but not yet of Roose Bolton and he asks Robb to explain the situation to him. By the end he is troubled, uncertain what path Robb might best take to to preserve his kingdom. They are both silent for a few long minutes, Jon thinking carefully before he speaks. 

“Your best course of action may be to make common cause with Stannis.” Jon advises and Robb looks towards him sharply. 

“You know Stannis, he will never bend.” Robb replies, “He will not agree to join his forces to mine unless I recognize him as ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“You may have no choice in the end.” Jon replies earnestly, hoping that his brother may see the wisdom in it. “Better to be Warden of the North with an intact land to rule over than to go to an early grave as King in the North with your land shattered.”

It gives Robb pause to think, and Jon is glad to see it. “You have your wife and child to think of now, as well as Arya and Sansa’s futures.” Jon continues, “And above all else, the threat from the Others. It would be unwise to weaken your remaining forces with anymore battles. Whatever you choose to do, you must choose carefully.”

“And you would have me bend the knee to Stannis.” Robb replies grimly, “Though I see the wisdom in it, I cannot like it.”

“It is never easy to rule over people and choose what is best for them, our father knew the truth of that.” Jon replies, “Apart from Stannis and the Lannisters there is still the matter of the last Targaeryan, across the Narrow Sea. There have been rumours from ships that trade at Eastwatch, that Daenarys Targaeryan has dragons and that once they are grown she means to retake Westeros. If that should come to pass then there may be no choice but to bend the knee or perish in flames.”

“Gods save us all, dragons.” Robb mutters and passes a hand over his face tiredly. “Everywhere I turn, there is some new threat. What would you counsel me to do, Jon?” He reaches out suddenly to grasp Jon’s hand. “I have missed having you by my side, having a brother whom I can discuss these things with. I have my bannermen but it is not the same, there are few who will speak so frankly to me.”

Jon nods and then composes his words carefully, it is the fate not only of his family that is at stake, but the realm as well. The North must be strong if they hope to defeat the Others and he does not wish to see Winterfell fall again. 

“You need to find the truth of Roose Bolton’s loyalty and make peace with Stannis.” Jon advises, “You will only need to bend the knee to him if he should gain the Iron Throne, you might promise him your fealty on the condition that he helps you to deal with your disloyal bannermen.”

“I did not choose to make myself King in the North; that was the decision of my lords and bannermen.” Robb replies quietly, “Whatever is to be done must be done with their agreement if I do not wish to lose their support. I shall send them a message to come to Winterfell for a Council, and ask Roose Bolton to also attend, to answer to his freeing of the Kingslayer. I shall know then by his response, how to judge him and proceed.” 

“Bolton is a worry indeed, and too close for comfort.” Jon agrees, “He must be your first priority and if he proves false then the alliance with Stannis will certainly be necessary.”

“I’ve been planning to give the Hornwood lands which abut the Boltons’ land to Sandor Clegane, now would be a good time to do so.” Robb muses, “That way he might be in place to act as my bannerman should Bolton rebel, and to be a first line of defense.” 

“It is a great trust you place in him, when he used to be the Lannisters’ loyal man.” Jon comments, careful with his words until he knows exactly what Robb thinks of the man. “Although Arya certainly sings his praises.”

“Yes, and Sansa as well.” Robb comments with a sigh. “He’s been true and loyal to me, and is deserving of the reward. It may also be a good thing for him to be gone from the Winterfell and have his own Castle now. Yes, it is time.” 

Jon wonders just what it is that Robb suspects and why he wishes for Sandor Clegane to be gone from Winterfell as soon as may be. If their sister does have an attachment to him and Robb knows of it, it seems that he does not approve of the suit.

Calling to the guard outside the door, Robb asks him to summon Sandor Clegane before he once again shuts the door and turns back to Jon. 

“There is something else I must tell you, something I learned when we met Howland Reed after retaking Moat Cailin.” Robb informs Jon, “He asked about you, and said to tell you that if you might wish to know the truth of who your mother was, then you may ask him.”

Jon is struck by it, an unexpected boon after years of waiting. If he was free of responsibilities then he would ride to the Neck and search for Greywater Watch until he found it, to finally hear the story of his birth. Yet the Wall and his responsibilities call to him, and he must put this desire aside for the time being at least. 

“Perhaps when Winter is over.” Jon replies. 

Should they all survive it, then there will be time enough then. 

There is a knock at the door and after Robb’s call to enter, Sandor Clegane steps in. He nods respectfully to both men and waits for Robb to speak, refusing the offer of a seat. 

“I had promised you lands and a title and the time has come for that.” Robb announces without preamble, “You will be granted the Hornwood lands and men to hold them, as well as the title of Lord Clegane. I will send the announcement by raven tomorrow to all my bannermen. I wish you to take over your lands as soon as possible, in case Roose Bolton should try to make a move against them.”

Jon watches the expression on Sandor Clegane’s face, the slight flicker of something as he hears the announcement and notices that there is not the happiness or gratitude that one might suspect.

Finally, the older man clears his throat. “I thank you for that, Your Grace. You’ve been generous in your reward to me and I would be honoured to be counted among your bannerman.” 

Robb nods in reply, ever the graceful King, but Jon can tell that the other man is not yet done. 

“But before you make the announcement or grant me the lands or title, I have a request to make.” Sandor Clegane continues, his posture tense, his gaze almost challenging. 

“And what is that request?” Robb replies, suddenly alert. 

“I wish to marry your sister, Sansa,” Clegane states with utter confidence. “And I would ask for you to give your blessing.”

So that’s the way of it then, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're really almost at the end now! I believe that there will be a total of 30 chapters and then an epilogue to see us to the conclusion! Thank you so much to everyone who's been reviewing and egging me on along the way, it's been a wonderful experience to see this story unfold and the reactions to it :)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the delay on this since I know I left it on a bit of a cliffhanger! I hope that the length (more than 6000 words!) makes up for it! I'm still in the process of replying to reviews from the last chapter and they should all be done soon :) Meanwhile I hope you all enjoy this one!

Chapter 28

He had not intended to speak of it so soon, certainly not on the very day that her brother Jon arrived at Winterfell.

They had agreed amongst themselves that he would give Sansa and Arya time to spend with their brother, and see how Lord Commander Snow might react to him. If it seemed that the Lord Commander would support his suit then Sandor had intended to ask for King Robb’s blessing before Jon Snow took his leave. 

Over the past four days they have discussed it and planned it as they stole their time together. It is a difficult thing to concentrate on talking when she is with him, but they have considered the possibilities and planned for them all, including escape routes and signals to use should her brother try to separate them. They have spoken of these things while sitting together or lying upon his cloak, curled around each other. While other lovers may speak endearments to each other during their courtships, he and his little bird have become better accustomed to speaking of strategies and battles. If the gods are good then it will not always have to be this way.

It is still so very new, to be able to hold her, press his kisses upon her and have his fill of her when there is enough time to do so. He will never have enough of her, will never be truly at ease unless she’s in his arms or within his reach and he can’t help but wish that she might be here now, or have known that this was to occur. He’d seen her just a few hours prior, helping her with one of her tasks to steal a few moments together of heated kisses and roaming hands and whispered promises. She’d told him that she thought her brother Jon liked him, and Sandor can only hope that she was right. 

On hearing Robb Stark’s pronouncement, he had realized that it was now or never, and steeled himself for the confrontation that must now take place. If King Robb were to announce that Sandor was to be granted lands and a title, only to have him run away with his sister, then it would be an even worse insult than otherwise. Sansa’s brother is a good king and has been a good master, and Sandor would not cause him greater embarrassment than necessary.

The two brothers stare at him and Sandor pauses to take their measure, noting the differences. Jon Snow has more of the look of the North and the Starks to him while King Robb takes after his Tully mother in appearance. Yet there is ice and steel in both of their veins and a strong bond between them. 

Robb Stark looks livid, a strong colour having come to his face, and his anger apparent. By contrast, Jon Snow is calm, considering, almost curious in his expression. 

“You wish to marry Sansa?” Robb Stark asks, struggling against his anger. “I respect you, Clegane, and I am offering you a fitting reward for your services but you ask too much. I thought that I had made it clear previously that Sansa is destined for a greater alliance. I had believed that you understood me.”

“Oh I understood you, but it didn’t change my own decision.” Sandor replies, careful to keep his cool in the hopes it will help. “Besides that, your sister has her own say on that matter and she won’t agree to your alliances. I don’t expect you to welcome me cheerfully as a goodbrother, I’m too lowborn for that. Regardless of that, I mean to have her as my wife, whether you give your agreement or not. I hope you’ll choose to give your blessing for her sake, I would not have her estranged from her family.”

Her kingly brother sputters while Lord Commander Snow continues to watch with a strange fascination.

“I had guessed that there might be feelings on your part, and I cannot blame you for it. Sansa is lovely, and any man would wish to marry her.” Robb replies, “But I cannot allow you to wed her. Sansa’s birth is far above your own and her marriage is needed to help keep the North safe. You must know that you cannot have her.”

Sandor takes a breath, still calm but wanting to get to the point, to have it done with and his answer finally. 

“What I know is that you’re her brother, and so I owed you the respect of asking for your blessing. What I also know is that there’s nothing that you can do to stop me from taking her.” 

He knows that the words are coming out wrong but he has no talent for diplomacy, that’s for his little bird and her sweet tongue. He’s always been plain spoken and there’s no point in couching things in polite terms when he doesn’t mean to stick to them. 

“Are you saying that you mean to take my sister from here without my consent?” Robb Stark asks, clearly outraged. “I would like to remind you that the last time a Stark daughter was kidnapped, the entire Seven Kingdoms went to war. I have trusted you, given you men to command and a position of honour, I was prepared to make you a lord, and this is how you repay me?”

Sandor gives a harsh laugh, “I respect you, Your Grace. You’re a good king, but all I’ve done these past months, I’ve done for her and her alone. I could’ve taken her away any time on the journey North without any of you the wiser until we were far beyond your reach. I’ve waited out of respect for you, and for her wishes. I swore you no vows of fealty to you, yet I fought your battles and helped you to reclaim your home. I’ve broken no oaths, though I might have broken your trust. You’ve been good to me, a good King, and I’d not do wrong by you if I can avoid it. But I will marry her, and if that means I have to flee with her then so be it.”

Robb Stark stares at him for a moment as if he can’t quite believe what the other man is saying and then sighs. “Clegane… I can understand that you have an attachment to my sister, but you need to understand my own position on this. My bannermen would never support me if I made the decision to give you her hand, and now more than ever I need their support. I offer you good lands, a castle and a title. With those you might marry any daughter from one of minor house.”

Sandor snarls at that, his lip curling up. “Do you think if I simply wanted a wife I’d be here asking for your sister’s hand, am I such a fool as that? Is Sansa is so easily exchanged for another? It is not a small thing for me, that she loves me. I had never expected it nor hoped for it but once she had given it I could never give her up. Keep your castles and your titles and banish us beyond the seas is need be, there’s nothing you could offer me in exchange for her.”

Does her kingly brother truly not see what his sister is, the lady that she has become? Sandor would wager that consumed by his own worries, Robb Stark has not. If he had, then he would understand that Sansa Stark is everything that a man could ever want, that nobody might compare to her. That she loves him… he will never take that for granted as long as he might live. King Robb believes that he still has a say in the matter, that he might withhold consent and have it mean something. Yet Sandor is secure, he knows that Sansa is his already, his by heart and deed if not by right. He’s come to trust in her love for him and he knows she’ll not allow them to be separated now. 

“And do you think she’d still want you, if there was no castle or title or lands?” King Robb asks him, now trying a different tact to dissuade him. “My sister was raised in luxury and now you intend to give her an exile beggar’s life. Do you think she’d still be happy with you once the money ran out?”

“Aye, she would, and I’d work hard to keep her so.” Sandor replies bluntly, “You still see her as the girl you knew at Winterfell, happy with fineries and pretty things. If you look at your sister now, properly look at her, you’ll find her much changed. We’ve been through our share of difficulties together already, she’ll not back down from them. Ask her yourself if you don’t believe my words. I’d hoped that you’d give your blessing to spare her from such a life, to spare her from needing to leave her family. Whatever life we might have though, whatever hardships we might face, we’ll see them through. She’s mine, and I’ll not give her up.”

Robb Stark moves to stand, anger and confusion warring on his face, but his half-brother extends a hand to stop him. 

“Robb… Perhaps we should hear what Sansa has to say on the matter.” Jon Snow suggests, looking questioningly at Robb Stark who gives a somewhat weary nod of assent. Quickly, the bastard lord commander walks to the door and gives the guard an order to summon Sansa before resuming his place and turning back to Sandor. “It is no small thing that you ask, Clegane. Highborn girls are raised to know they must marry for the benefit of their families, even Sansa was brought up with that knowledge. Robb had expected her to marry in accordance with our family’s needs, and there is great need at present.” Jon snow pauses then, “You are also not what any of us expected Sansa to wish for in a husband.”

The Lord Commander raises an eyebrow and Sandor knows that he is being tested, by this stripling pup no less. Yet the lad has been elected to his position due to his own skills, and that’s to be respected. 

Sandor laughs at that, knowing the truth in Jon Snow’s words. “No need to be polite and mince words, I’ll say it myself. I’m low born, too old by far, scarred and ugly and most women would prefer not to look upon my face at all let alone kiss it. I’ve done terrible things in my life, and I’ve a reputation as a killer, a turncoat and even a kinslayer. Yet your sister sees past all that and loves me, whether I deserve it or no, and I’m not such a fool as to turn her away simply because she’s too good for the likes of me.”

“And do you love her?” Jon Snow asks, his grey eyes boring into Sandor’s own as he touches Robb’s arm to stall him from speaking. “What would you do for her?”

Sandor gives a harsh bark at that, yet he can’t help but be glad that the younger man is giving him the chance to speak his piece. “What wouldn’t I do for her?” He asks in return. “I’d do damn well fucking anything to keep her happy and safe. Yes, I love her. I’ve loved precious few people in this life, and she’s the first I’ve loved since the time I was a boy. I’d die sooner than allow harm to come to her. No matter what your answer is, I’ll not give her up. She’s mine and you’ll not separate her from me.”

Jon Snow nods thoughtfully but Robb Stark frowns.

“Have you…” A colour rises in the young king’s face then as he frames his next words. “Has her honour been compromised in any way? Is my sister yet a maid?”

Sandor bites down upon his own anger. He’ll not dishonor her by admitting to what they’ve done; let her brother believe that she goes to her marriage bed a maid. He should have restrained himself till they were wed, but there’s no harm in it, and he believes no honour is lost in loving the one that you intend to marry. She’s given him a precious gift and he’s well aware of the importance of it, but it was hers to give or keep as she wished and none of her brother’s damned business. 

“I’ll not have anybody question her honour or they’ll answer to me.” Sandor replies instead, his tone clearly indicating that there’s to be no more discussion on the topic. 

Jon Snow coughs once and King Robb looks as if he’s about to challenge Sandor’s statement when there’s a soft knock on the door and it opens to admit Sansa. 

“You wished to see me, Robb?” She asks, stepping in. She starts slightly to see Sandor there and then looks back towards her brothers to see the anger upon Robb Stark’s face and the more mixed expression upon Job Snow’s.

“Oh.” She murmurs, his clever little bird, quickly understanding what has occurred. She takes a breath as if to calm herself and then walks forward quickly to stand beside Sandor. Before he can even turn his head to look at her, to reassure her, she’s already reached out with one small, soft hand, grasping his where it hangs by his side and bringing her other hand up to lay on top of it.

Without speaking a single word she has made her choice apparent and Sandor feels a rush of pride at the deftness and confidence with which it was done.

“Sansa…” Robb begins to say, a warning tone in his voice as Jon Snow appraises them silently. 

“What has been said already?” Sansa asks, cutting him off. “Tell me so that I may know what I must say to you.”

“I’m sorry it’s earlier than planned, little bird.” Sandor rasps, looking down upon her face. “His Grace wished to grant me a lordship and lands and I could not allow him to without revealing how things stood. I’ve asked him for your hand, he knows that I love you and that I’ll be making you my wife regardless of his answer.”

Sansa nods, turning towards him and away from her brothers and squeezes his hand between both of hers, lowering her voice. “You did rightly, I would not have Robb embarrassed in front of his bannermen. I would speak to my brothers privately, Sandor. Perhaps if I can convince them that my happiness truly lies in this and in no other path, they may agree.”

He nods, knowing the wisdom in her words and leans down to kiss the crown of her head, ignoring the expression of outrage on her kingly brother’s face. 

“I’ll be right outside,” He announces, “Call me in if there’s any need.”

Their fate lies in her hands now and how well she might convince her brothers.

Sandor hopes that they might love her enough to agree. 

**

She waits for him to leave and the door to be closed once more before stepping forward to take a seat across from her brothers with a confidence that she does not truly feel. She smoothes her skirts down, trying to compose her thoughts so that she might find the right words. 

“Are you mad, Sansa?” Robb asks her with no preamble, his frustration apparent. “Clegane? Really? Could you not have fallen in love with anyone more unlikely?”

“Perhaps I am mad,” Sansa replies calmly, locking eyes with first Robb and then Jon to let them see that this is no trifle to her, she is perfectly serious. “Yet I do not see why you would find it unlikely.”

Robb snorts at that, and Sansa is reminded that he is her only slightly elder brother, barely into adulthood himself. “You must truly be blinded in love, then.” He comments, “I believed that if you would fall for anyone it would be some handsome young lord or knight. Clegane is too lowborn and too old for you, and hardly pleasant to look upon. He has a reputation as a killer and a brute and served the Lannisters for almost longer than you’ve been alive. He’s not the man I would choose for you, little sister.”

“I know that you want the best for me, Robb.” Sansa replies evenly, “And that you hoped to make me a marriage that I would be happy in. I tell you now that this is the only marriage that would make me happy. Just because a man is young and handsome it does not mean that he will make a good husband, I trust that I have learned at least that from my time at King’s Landing. You have spoken of Sandor as the world sees him, yet you know that there is more to him then that. If there wasn’t then you wouldn’t have taken him into your service, nor given him a command, nor been willing to give him lands and a title. He is brave and loyal and a born leader. He has qualities enough if you would look to see him.”

“I will agree that you are right on that count,” Robb admits, “He has ample qualities for a bannerman, but I cannot understand why you would wish to bind yourself to him. You could choose from amongst the highest lords of this land, Sansa.”

Sansa’s eyes flash then as she struggles to frame her reply. “You forget, Robb, that I have already been betrothed to the highest lord of the land.The days when I desired crowns and titles are long since gone, the Lannisters saw to that. You may not understand why I might choose Sandor despite what you know of him, but he is my choice. Is it so unlikely that I should love him when he has made every sacrifice for me, has protected me and saved me and loved me for my own self rather than my claim?”

It is Jon who speaks then, giving Sansa a gentle smile. “Robb knows the man well, but I have only met him today. He seems changed from the last time I saw him, but I wish to understand why you do wish to marry him. You are my sister too, Sansa, and while it is not my decision whom you should marry, I would wish to see you happy. Explain to me how it is that you have come to love him. For I can see that there is a bond between you, and I wish to understand it.”

Sansa looks at Jon measuringly; while Robb has made his displeasure at Sandor’s request clear, Jon has yet to make his stance upon the matter known. In the end it will not be Jon’s decision and yet Sansa knows that Robb respects him, and may listen to his opinion. 

And so, haltingly, she begins to explain. 

“There are reasons why Sandor is the way he is, I will not go into them now. He learned to protect himself from an early age when all of his protectors failed him. He may be rough of manner, but he is true of heart and I love him dearly. In King’s Landing I was surrounded by enemies with nobody I could trust and he helped me, tried to protect me with no thought of anything in return. He was honest to a fault, often brutally so, and he helped me to see the court for what it was and taught me to protect myself from them. He saved me more than once, with no thought of even any thanks for his actions. When he deserted on the night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay he came to my room and offered to take me with him. I was scared at first and refused, I did not know him then as I know him now. Yet he convinced me and brought me home to my family, and on the journey I grew to know him better. He taught me to be strong, and to believe in myself, to believe that I could be more than simply a pawn. Believe me, brothers, when I tell you that he never behaved improperly with me nor tried to win my favour. Yet I managed to see the man he truly is and the man he might be, and I grew to love him. At Riverrun… At Riverrun I realized that I loved him, after you would have married to me a Frey, Robb, I have known it since then.”

“So this has been going on since Riverrun then?” Robb asks her, clearly shocked by how little he has noticed.

“No,” Sansa corrects him with a small blush. “I knew I loved him since then, but when I tried to tell him, he told me not to be foolish. I knew what I wanted, was sure in my heart, yet he resisted my efforts because he believed I deserved better.” She fixes them both with an iron gaze. “But there is no better, and no other for me, and when he went to fight his brother, I finally managed to convince him of the truth of it.”

Robb shakes his head and passes a shaky hand over his face, as if unable to believe what she is telling him. Sansa supposes that no brother ever truly wishes to hear of his sister’s love affair. 

“Once he was recovered from his injuries we made our plans.” She continues, “I asked if we might wait until after we were back in Winterfell, with the North regained and he agreed to it. I had hoped… I had hoped that you would see his worth, and agree to his suit. We have waited, in the hope that you would agree, when we might have fled at any point on the journey North. Understand, my brothers, that this decision has not been made on a whim. I have loved him for months, as he has loved me, I have made my decision despite knowing what the consequences might be. I do not wish to be separated from you all, but if I must in order to be with him… so be it.”

Robb is staring at her as if he no longer recognizes her, and Sansa realizes that she has shocked him with both her retelling and her level of conviction.

Robb pauses, as if thinking how to ask his next question, continuing with only a measure of trepidation. “Have you… have you lain with him, Sansa?”

She blushes at that, unable to help it. It is not a topic that she would ever wish to discuss with her brothers but she wonders if it might tip the balance in their favour.

“I have.” She replies gravely. 

“Seven hells,” Robb mutters and curses under his breath. “Did you do so on purpose, thinking that I might agree to the marriage then? Perhaps you might not marry so highly now but there will still be lords willing to take you. How could you do this, Sansa? Is nothing due to your birth and your family?”

“I gave myself to him because I wished to do so.” Sansa answers angrily, unable to help herself. “And I care not for who would still have me, because regardless of whether I remained a maid or not, I would still have none but him. And you, brother, might have some right to judge me if you could honestly state that you and Talisa had waited for your wedded vows before you lay together.”

Robb has the grace to look ashamed, and sighs, suddenly looking as if he is defeated. “What am I to do, Sansa?” He asks her suddenly, more tired than angry. “I had planned to make you a good match that you would be happy with and that could also strengthen our family.”

Sansa rises to cross to Robb and kneels in front of his chair, taking both of his hands in hers. “You made these plans when you believed I could be happy in such a match.” She tells him softly, “Yet now you know that I could never be so, and I say honestly that I will never marry any man but him. I do not wish to marry without your consent, Robb, but I will do so if needs be. Please do not force me to become estranged from you when I have found you again so recently. Sandor will be a good bannerman to you, a strong goodbrother who will stand by your side in all things.”

Robb is moved by her speech, she sees it in his eyes, yet he still shakes his head. “Were I to give my agreement, my lords bannermen might very well take offense at it and I cannot afford that at this time. There is more afoot than you know, Sansa.” He replies gently, “And yet when I planned matches for you, I did not know that you loved him and I… it is not an easy decision you ask me to make when the fate of the entire North rests upon my shoulders.”

“But you are willing to think on it?” Sansa presses him, “Please, Robb.”

Robb has opened his mouth to reply when the door is wrenched open, and they all turn towards it. Sandor Clegane still stands outside, and his eyes dart to Sansa where she kneels but he makes no move to enter, respecting her desire for time to speak alone. Instead it is Arya who darts in, forgetting to close the door behind her which Sandor promptly does so. 

“Arya, we are having a private discussion.” Robb tells her sternly, “You were not summoned here.”

“No I wasn’t, but I know what’s going on and I’ll have my say too.” Arya declares, arms crossed over her chest. Sansa hears something that sounds suspiciously like a snort from Jon. 

“Arya…”

“No you listen, Robb.” Arya interrupts him, “I want Sansa to marry Sandor. He’s a member of our pack now, he’s more than proved himself. We’ll never get a better goodbrother than him and he’ll love her and keep her safe and happy like a husband should. He’ll protect all of us if you marry him to Sansa.” She pauses then and raises a calculating eyebrow. “And besides, Talisa thinks they should be allowed to marry too.”

“Talisa!” Robb practically explodes, “Has everyone known of this but me?”

“Not everyone,” Sansa murmurs, rising to her feet once more. “Mother doesn’t.”

“Mother will flay me alive if I give you permission to marry Sandor Clegane.” Robb mutters, “And I certainly do not want to be the one to break the news to her that you wish to.”

“I shall do that,” Sansa offers contritely, “I wanted to wait until I knew what your reply was. Mother… she shall never agree. But you, Robb, you know that Sandor is a good man, you respect him. I had hoped that you might allow us to marry so that we do not need to leave.”

“But you would leave if you needed to?” Robb asks her then earnestly, “You would be willing to leave your entire family behind, perhaps forever, for him? Your title, your claim, all luxuries? It would not be an easy life, Sansa.”

“No, it would not be.” Sansa agrees, “But we would be together, and that would be worth any amount of suffering. I have lived in a gilded cage in King’s Landing, Robb. I have had my share of silks and jewels and I have learned that they do not bring you happiness.”

“If they have to leave then I’m going with them.” Arya declares suddenly, stepping forward to put her hand into Sansa’s. 

“What?” Robb splutters, “Now really, Arya, this is too…”

“No it’s not.” Arya interrupts without waiting for him to finish the sentence. “I’m not going to wait here and allow you and Mother to plan my betrothal to some lord or other who I might not even like. If you think I’ll ever agree to any marriage I’m not happy with then you don’t know me at all, Robb. I would prefer to go with Sansa and Sandor and be able to live as I wish.”

Robb sighs heavily and bows his head, clutching it with both hands. 

Sansa waits, wondering whether this means that they are successful, that Robb has given in and will agree to Sandor’s suit. Yet Robb sits like that for a long time without speaking, as if attempting to find the solution within his hands. 

Jon reaches out and places a hand on Robb’s shoulder, squeezing it and Robb finally looks up. 

“May Talisa’s child be a son.” He mutters, shaking his head. 

“As if you were any more obedient when it came to your marriage,” Arya comments indignantly but Sansa holds her tongue and stills her expression, waiting. 

“I do not know what to do.” Robb finally declares, his expression open and honest. “I want you to be happy, Sansa, I want to be able to grant you this. Yet the situation we are currently in…” He shakes his head again, unable to express it. 

It is then that Jon speaks up, his hand still upon Robb’s shoulder. “By Wildling standards they would already be judged to be married.” He comments with a sad smile, “He stole her fairly after all, right from under the Lannisters noses, and she’s made her own choice to accept him. I know that wildling practices will not stand here though and I have been thinking that perhaps there is a solution, one which may serve several purposes. Robb, if we may discuss this in private?”

Robb nods, his expression as if he is thankful that somebody might have an idea that would serve upon the matter. 

“Thank you, Jon.” Sansa tells her brother sincerely, briefly locking eyes with him. He gives her a small smile and still holding Arya by the hand, Sansa leads them both outside to the hallway. 

Sandor is leaning against the opposite wall, waiting, and he looks up as soon as they exit, his eyes fixed upon Sansa’s face, an almost painful hope within them.

The corridor is empty and letting go of Arya’s hand, Sansa takes his, threading her fingers through his own and leaning her head upon his shoulder. 

“Well, little bird, do we have an answer?” He asks her, tilting his head to kiss her once more upon the crown of hers. 

“I do not know what it is to be,” Sansa admits, “Robb says that he wishes to grant this to me, to allow me my happiness, yet fears the reaction of his bannermen. He is undecided. Jon has asked leave to suggest something, and now we wait.”

They wait more than a half hour, in silence apart from the repetitive thuds of Arya kicking the wall. Sansa finds herself oddly calm, as if she stands in the eye of the storm. They have planned and agonized over this for months now and it is a relief to have it all finally said and done. Robb… she believes that he is beginning to understand, that now that he knows the depths of her feelings he will not refuse her. Sansa only hopes that Jon’s solution will work, whatever it may be. 

Finally the door opens and Jon appears to motion them all in. They stand facing Robb, Sandor and Arya to either side of Sansa, Sandor’s hand grasping her arm as if to demonstrate his claim in case her brothers should forget it. 

Jon moves to stand by Robb and her brother rises, a conflicted expression on his face. 

“It is not what I had planned for you, Sansa, but you were my sister long before I was ever crowned King of the North and I have always wanted you to be happy. If your happiness rests with Clegane, then I will not deny it to you. You have my word that I will see you two wed and give my blessing to the match.” 

Sansa takes in a sharp, happy breath and looks up at Sandor, scarcely able to believe it. The face of her beloved shows a certain measure of happiness, but she knows that he has yet to grasp it fully. He has received so few favours in his life that he is always distrustful of them at first. 

“Oh thank you, Robb!” Sansa exclaims, “I knew that once I told you the truth of it you would not deny me. You are truly the best brother that I could wish for.”

She crosses to meet him and hugs him warmly, as he kisses her forehead in a sign of benediction. When Robb lets her go, Sansa reaches out for Jon instead, hugging him tightly, knowing that he has helped to accomplish it. “Thank you, brother.” She whispers to him and when she pulls back there are tears in his eyes as well as hers.

Sandor is slower to move, crossing to meet Robb, and he holds one hand out in offering to her brother, which Robb quickly grasps.

“I thank you,” Sandor states simply, as he grasps Robb’s hand. He has never been one for long speeches or flowery sentiments.

“You’d better keep her happy and safe,” Robb tells him, “You’re a good man, Clegane, though it took me time to see it. While I may have had my reservations, I’ll be glad to have you as my goodbrother.”

“Aye, and I’ll not let you down.” Sandor promises, and Sansa can hear the note of emotion in his voice. “I’ll fight your battles for you wherever they may be and keep your lands safe. I’ll see that your sister wants for naught.”

Robb nods then and with a final squeeze of the hand, they release each other. Sansa reaches out for Sandor’s hand instead, grasping it tightly and barely unable to contain her happiness.

After everything they have been through, it has finally come to the ending she wished for. Surely it is nothing less than a song come to life. 

Arya is grinning madly and Sansa smiles widely back at her, reaching out with her spare hand to gather her into a hug before Robb clears his throat. 

“You will be married before dawn on the day that Jon is due to leave.” He informs them, “Until then you will need to be circumspect, the marriage must needs remain a secret for now.”

“A secret?” Sansa asks, suddenly plagued by doubts. “But why’s that, Robb? And what was Jon’s solution to your difficulties?”

“There’s still some details to be worked out, but I will tell you before the wedding takes place, once all is set.” Robb replies, “Please trust me when I say that everything will all work out for the best, I simply need to work out some details before speaking of it.”

“I trust you, Robb.” Sansa says softly, “And if you say it is for the best then I will accept it, but how might I prepare for my wedding before then?”

Robb smiles at her then and there is a trace of sadness within it. “I regret that I cannot arrange your marriage as I might have wished, Sansa. There will not be the gown that you would have wanted, nor the feast, circumstances prevent it. But I will stand with you in the godswood and remove your maiden’s cloak, and Clegane shall drape his own cloak around your shoulders.”

“And that is enough for me, Robb.” Sansa tells him sincerely, her eyes shining as she pictures the long awaited moment. That her family will bless her and be with her in her wedding is a thousand times better than a proper gown or a feast.

In the end, it is more than she had ever hoped for.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this, but it's another long one which I hope makes up for it! I'm still writing the next one, but I'm hoping that I'll have finished both that and the epilogue before Monday when I start a new job. Once I'm happy with them I will post them in quick succession :)

Chapter 29

Sansa might not yet understand her brother’s reasons for secrecy, but she trusts him and will abide by them. 

For the remaining three days until their marriage takes place, she and Sandor agree that they will do nothing that might arouse suspicion or see them exposed. Now that she has her brothers’ blessings, Sansa is content to wait, she has an entire lifetime ahead of her in which to spend with Sandor. A lifetime that will now remain untainted by the spectre of family disapproval and estrangement. 

Arya is also relieved, though Sansa believes that she is perhaps also a little disappointed that now she has lost the chance for further adventure. At this stage, Robb has told them nothing about where they will settle after their wedding and so Sansa does not know if they are likely to be near or far from her family. He has promised to tell them all as soon as possible, when everything has been confirmed, and she finds herself waiting with a strange sense of anticipation. 

It is difficult to keep herself from Sandor, as accustomed as she has become to stealing her time with him, those precious moments. Lovemaking is still so very new to her and she finds herself hungering for the time when they might be together again, this time with no secrecy or hurry. There is something new to discover every time she joins with him, new ways of touching each other and taking their pleasure, the sweet heady build up of pressure followed by release. There is still some pain, even now, but day by day it grows less as other feelings replace it. To be parted from him, unable to touch him, for even three days is a sweet torture, but one that she is willing to bear. They will have their bed now, have entire nights of loving, the opportunity to go sleep in each others arms and wake curled around each other. 

There is nothing that might ruin Sansa’s happiness now, nothing except the disapproval of the only family member that remains to be told. 

After Robb had given his approval he had dismissed them all, stating that he and Jon had matters of importance to discuss and they had gladly left. Taking a moment to survey the corridor, Sandor had clutched her to him tightly and kissed her soundly, grinning when he let her go. Even Arya had been too happy to object this time. 

“It seems too good to be true.” He had commented, “But I’ll not ruin this moment by doubting it. I’ll keep myself away from you for the next three days and be ready to be claim you upon the fourth.” 

His grin is positively wolfish, and Sansa cannot help herself from grinning back. She had said farewell to him with another kiss before leaving with Arya to visit her goodsister, her mother blessedly absent for the moment. Whispering, they had confided all to Talisa who had given her congratulations, exclaiming joyously and asking for details. Sansa’s goodsister pledges her intent to be at the wedding, stating that nothing would be able to keep her from it. 

And now only Lady Catelyn remains to be told. 

Sansa knows that this will not be such a happy task as informing Talisa, that it shall most likely be an even greater trial than securing Robb’s permission. Robb at least sees the good in Sandor and respects him, her mother has never warmed to him and likely never will. Growing up, Sansa was her mother’s pride and joy, a perfect little lady who would surely make a grand match. It is the only ambition that a mother may have for her daughters, and so it was one that Lady Catelyn had held dearly. After everything else that her lady mother has lost, Sansa knows the cruelty of taking this dream from her too.

Sansa had allowed the night to pass without informing Lady Catelyn, not wishing to sour her happiness of that day with an argument; the evening meal had been strained enough with Jon at table with them. Now the next day has dawned and Sansa knows she cannot delay for much longer with only three days left to her. She had spent the previous evening sewing the finishing touches on the gown that she plans to wear when she is wed. It is a far plainer gown than her younger self would have wished for, but Sansa is happy with it. She would gladly wear sackcloth to the ceremony if it meant that she was able to wed him.

Sansa allows herself to spend the morning happily in Robb, Jon and Arya’s company, riding out into the surrounding lands with Ghost and Grey Wind loping alongside. Together they tell old stories of happier times gone by before they were all separated, of their father and little brothers. It is a good day, a happy day, tinged with the knowledge of what has been lost and the parting that is to come when Jon must return to the Wall. 

“I believe that I might take Clegane up on his offer of a sparring partner,” Jon announces when they return, leaving to ready himself with Arya excitedly following.

Robb places a hand on her shoulder, stopping Sansa when she might have followed the others.

“I will go with you to speak to Mother,” he tells her, “As much as I am loathe to face her wrath, she should hear it from my lips that I have consented to the marriage, and then you may speak to her privately.”

“Thank you, Robb.” Sansa tells him, relieved that she does not need to broach the topic on her own. Together they climb to the Lord’s Solar, and Robb sends a message for their mother to join them there. 

Sansa waits anxiously. She knows that this will be a turning point in her relationship with her mother, that after this point, things may never be the same between them. She is not naïve enough to believe that Lady Catelyn will change her opinion about Sandor, or that she will be anything other than disappointed with Sansa’s decision.

When she hears the door opening, Sansa reaches out to grip Robb’s hand, suddenly dreading what is to come. She does not want to be estranged from her mother and she fears that despite Robb’s blessing, that is what it will come to. Robb pats her hand reassuringly before he lets it go. 

Lady Catelyn enters with a querying look and a smile when she sees them both, and Sansa offers her a weak one in return, steeling herself for her mother’s displeasure.   
“You wished to speak to me, Robb?” Lady Catelyn asks as she takes her seat and Robb nods.

“It is concerning Sansa’s future, Mother.” He tells her, “In the past we have discussed prospects for alliances and whose proposals we might consider. Yesterday I made a decision after hearing Sansa’s wishes on the matter.”

Lady Catelyn nods, waiting expectantly. 

Robb pauses then and Sansa wonders if he is dreading their mother’s reaction as much as she is. 

“Yesterday, Sandor Clegane asked for Sansa’s hand in marriage, and I have granted it to him.” 

There is deathly silence for a moment as Lady Catelyn stares at them both, as if unable to believe it. 

“Surely this is a jape, Robb?” She asks him finally, “It is certainly a bad one.”

“It is no jape, Mother.” Sansa answers quietly, “He loves me and I, him. We have waited with the hope of gaining my family’s approval for the match. Yesterday Sandor requested Robb’s blessing for us to wed and my brother has granted it.”

She looks towards Robb then, her eyes shining with love and gratefulness and he gives her a reassuring smile in return. He is again her big brother, her hero, who will do anything to ensure her happiness.

“Sansa…” Her mother begins, and then stops as if she has no idea what she should say. “How could…” She stops again just as suddenly, deciding to try a different approach. “This is madness… Sansa I realize that you’re only a girl, you don’t know the ways of the world or what you’re doing, but Robb… how could you agree to this? You must rescind your approval and tell him that it cannot be. ”

“That, I will not do.” Robb replies sternly, “I have given my word, as a Stark and as a King, and I mean to stick to it. I also had my reservations on the match when he requested her hand from me, but they have been overcome. He loves her truly, and he will be an asset as a bannerman and goodbrother. I think he shall keep her very happy.”

Sansa beams at his words, knowing now that her brother is truly accepting of the match despite his earlier objections. Just as she has slowly but surely been growing into the woman she will be, so too has Robb grown into a man, into a king. Their father would be proud of him, she knows it in her heart. 

Catelyn sighs at that, her disappointment clear upon her face. “I do not know what type of a spell he has cast upon you, Robb, but skill in battle is not enough to grant a man your sister’s hand. Sansa is a princess, sister of the King in the North, she should marry into one of the highest families of the land. Clegane’s grandfather was a kennelmaster for the Lannisters. They have been landed gentry for only one generation, and he himself is not even a knight. He is rough of manner and his ill deeds are well known, and now he has seized upon the opportunity to ingratiate himself with you. You might raise him high now but he is too low born to marry Sansa and your bannermen will remember it and resent it.”

“That they may,” Robb admits, “But he has also won their respect and that is no easy feat. I know that my bannermen may resent my granting Sansa’s hand to him, and Jon has provided me a solution to that, which you will all be informed of soon. For now, what you must know is that my decision holds firm. They will be allowed to marry, and shall do so in the early morning three days from now before Jon leaves to return to the Night’s Watch. Until then I require utmost secrecy regarding the match and you are to speak of it to no one.” He stops, his expression softening as he looks at his mother earnestly. “I hope that by the time of their marriage, you will have made your peace with it and join us in the godswood to bless Sansa.”

“I do not see how such a match could be blessed.” Lady Catelyn comments bitterly, “When it is one that will cause such misery.” She turns to her daughter now to address her. “You may believe that you love him, Sansa, and it seems romantic now to pledge yourself to him because you see him as a protector and a savior, but in a year or two when that first ardour fades, you will regret it.”

“May I speak to Mother in private?” Sansa asks Robb and he rises to excuse himself, seeming relieved to do so, before he pauses at the door.

“I’m sorry that this decision has distressed you, Mother, and that it is not what you wanted, but it is final. Please do remember that this must not be discussed with anyone else for the moment.”

With that, Robb leaves and Sansa is left alone with her mother, who wears a look of stark disappointment upon her features.

“Oh Sansa,” Lady Catelyn sighs, “It is not too late to change your decision. Say the word and I will ensure that Robb ends this foolishness.”

“I do not wish to change my decision,” Sansa replies, softly entreating in her tone. “You do not like him, Mother, or believe him worthy of me. I know that. But you have never truly given him a chance, nor allowed for the possibility of him being a good man, one whom I might wish to bind myself to. Please believe me when I tell you that I love him dearly and that I know he will keep me happy. There is no doubt in my mind and the only possibility of misery would come from the denial of that.”

Lady Catelyn sighs again at this and reaches out to take Sansa’s hand. “You are still so very young, Sansa, and had a terrible experience with your first betrothal. I understand why you are drawn to him when he protected you and saved you, but that does not mean that you need to marry him. There are other men whom you might marry, men of birth more suited to your own who are fairer to look upon and younger.”

“I do not want any but him.” Sansa replies resolutely, “I have already met such men, Mother. Met them in my brother’s warhost at Riverrun and had them pay court to me and offer me flattery and I wanted not a one of them. Perhaps they might love me in time, but most were interested in my claim rather than me. What confidence could I have in such men that they would love me and protect me for the remainder of my days? I know that that is the way of it among the high houses, but it is not what I want. Sandor loves me, loves me as I am with no thought of my house or my claim. He would have willingly fled with me if it came to that, titles and lands mean nothing to him. I know that whatever occurs he will always love me and that he will never allow any harm to come to me. It is more than that… I will be valued in my marriage, an equal with him, an equal in all things rather than simply a vassal for his children.”

Sansa reaches out to take her mother’s hand and squeezes it. “I love him, Mother, I love him with every bit of my being. He is not what you wanted for me, but he is what I want for myself. I am not the girl I was when I left you at Winterfell and I no longer want those things that we dreamed together. I do not want to be a queen or even the mistress of a large castle, I want only a home, and love and family. Those are the only things of any importance in this world. It is only once I lost them that I realized the truth of that.”

She grips her mother’s hand tightly until Lady Catelyn finally looks at her properly and waits for her mother to see the truth of it in her eyes. 

“I do not expect you to ever be truly happy with my match, or welcome Sandor wholeheartedly as your goodson.” Sansa tells her mother gently, “I know that that would be asking too much of you. Yet I would ask you to give him the respect due my husband and to accept this marriage and bless me on my wedding day. I love you, Mother, and I do not want this to drive a wedge between us. I do not want to be estranged from you, not when I have gone through so much to regain my family.”

Lady Catelyn is silent for a long time and Sansa watches the changing emotions across her mother’s face before she finally gives a curt nod. “I will never be happy with this match, Sansa, and I pray that you will not come to rue the day that you made it. But I have lost too much already, your father, your brothers, and I do not want to lose you too. I will bless your wedding and I will pray that you find the happiness you expect within the match. I pray that he may be worthy of you.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Sansa whispers, suddenly overcome as she reaches out to embrace Lady Catelyn. Her mother may never be happy with Sansa’s choice of a husband but at least now they will not be estranged. Sansa hopes that with time, Lady Catelyn will see the wisdom of her choice and understand Sandor’s true worth. It is a faint hope but at least now there is a chance of it. 

With a gentle kiss upon her mother’s cheek and a final hug, she leaves her then, rushing down to the courtyard where she knows she will find Sandor and her siblings. Sure enough, Sandor and Jon are sparring while Robb looks on, his sword also ready and waiting for his turn. She hears Sandor’s rasping laugh as he makes some jape and then the answering ring of her siblings’ mirth; Arya’s high, ringing laugh the loudest. 

She stops suddenly to watch them, overwhelmed by the feeling that rises within her. This is her family, her pack to use the term that Arya favours. They are bonded by more than simply love, and those bonds will hold strong. She need not choose between them now, need not be estranged from the family she was born into in order to be with the family that she has chosen. After everything that has happened to them it is almost too good to believe, and Sansa clutches the idea of it to herself, frozen for a moment in dread in case it should turn out to be false. 

Then Robb spots her and still laughing, waves her over, and the moment has passed. Sansa joins them, smiling, seeking out Sandor’s gaze and giving him a small nod to show that all is well. His expression does not change but there is a brightness in his eyes, an almost easy happiness. It is such a change from when she first knew him, a time when his eyes were almost always filled with rage or bitterness or self-hatred. He has found peace among them, has found the man that he was meant to be, and she will always be thankful for that. 

Robb begins to spar with Sandor then and Sansa settles down with Arya and Jon to watch, laughing and trading comments. 

It is a strange feeling that arises in her then, one which she has not known since she was a girl of thirteen, leaving Winterfell for the first time. 

A feeling of home. 

**

It is the afternoon of the next day when Robb summons them all to the Lord’s Solar, Lady Catelyn and Talisa also attending. Robb and Jon have been holed up in the former’s study all morning, and Sansa knows that the moment of truth for her future has finally arrived. She knows that her brother will allow her and Sandor to marry, and that is the most important of all considerations, yet he has not told them what their future is to truly be. There has been no further mention of lands or lordship, and Robb has stipulated that the marriage is to be a secret for the time being. It is confusing but Sansa must trust her brothers, must trust that Jon has come up with a solution that will ensure her happiness and that Robb is working towards it. 

In the Lord’s solar, away from prying eyes, they might finally be themselves, and the moment Sandor enters, Sansa cannot help herself from going to him, reaching out to take his hands and standing on her toes to place a kiss upon his cheek. His lips twist slightly in what she knows to be a smile and he places a kiss upon her temple in return before leading her to her seat. He chooses not to sit beside her, that place claimed by Arya, but stands slightly behind her instead, one hand upon her shoulder. 

Sansa notices her mother watching them with an expression of distaste, and looking up to glance at Sandor’s face, knows by the tic of his jaw and the hardening of his eyes that he has seen the same. Averting her eyes from her mother, Sansa reaches up to place her hand on top of his where it sits upon her shoulder, briefly squeezing it. 

There will be years yet in which to soften her mother’s stance and Sansa thinks that perhaps one day when their children are born, that may be the key to her mother’s acceptance.

Talisa enters with a smile, Robb’s hand protectively upon the small of her back and intent upon guiding her towards a seat. She stops to offer her congratulations to Sandor, not having seen him since Sansa had shared the news. 

“I know that you will make my goodsister Sansa happy, and I welcome you as a brother.” She tells him, a truly graceful queen in that moment. 

Sandor blinks as if in surprise and then nods with a murmured thanks and Talisa continues to her seat next to Lady Catelyn. 

When they are all finally there, Robb clears his throat and begins to speak. 

“I had promised an answer regarding the solution to the challenges posed by Sansa’s marriage, and today you shall have it.” He announces, his gaze shifting to each one of them in turn. “The initial suggestion was Jon’s, and I agree with him that it is the best course of action, considering what we currently face.”

He turns then, to face Sandor and Sansa directly. “I am happy to welcome you as my goodbrother, Clegane, and in the past two days since I have had time to consider the matter properly, I have cause to be happier than when I first agreed. I respect you and that is why I will state the matter honestly. Your birth is too low for my bannermen to happily accept you as Sansa’s husband, especially when many had hoped to claim that privilege for a son of their own. At this moment, when the Freys are in open rebellion and Roose Bolton’s loyalty is in question, I need to ensure that there is no further cause for complaint among my other bannermen. That is why I have asked for secrecy at this point.”

Most of them nod at that, understanding Robb’s reasoning. Sansa had never expected the choice to be an easy one for him, she feels a tinge of nervousness at the idea of what it might cost him yet. 

“Meanwhile there is Stannis at the Wall and the Others beyond it… it seems we are besieged from all sides.” Robb continues, “And all the while the rumours from Essos of a Targaeryan princess with dragons continue to grow. It is a time when we must choose our alliances carefully if we are to preserve our House and lands. I have already sent ravens to my bannermen asking them to journey to Winterfell to discuss the possibility of an alliance with Stannis Baratheon and discuss the danger of the ancient enemy. In the same note, I have announced the granting of a lordship to Sandor Clegane for his role in helping to secure the North for our peoples. The raven sent to Roose Bolton has asked him to answer for his treachery in the freeing of the Kingslayer. By his reply I shall know how to judge him.”

“What is this talk of an alliance with Stannis?” Lady Catelyn breaks in, “Do you mean to bend the knee to him now? He has crowned himself king of Westeros and he will not accepted a divided kingdom. I know the man, and he will never bend.”

“That is what my bannermen must decide, Mother.” Robb answers her, “It was they who crowned me, and if they agree then I shall willingly remove this crown and be simply Lord Stark and Warden of the North once more. In the end the decision we take might have much to do with Roose Bolton’s reply. He has a large force loyal to him, and we may very well need Stannis’ might to challenge him.”

“But Robb…”

Robb holds up his hand to still his mother’s objections. “My brother Jon had the right of it when he told me the following words. Better only a lord of the lands you hold than to die a king with your lands divided.”

That silences everyone for a moment, until Sansa finally gathers her courage to speak up. “And what of us, brother? Do you mean to allow us to wed but have the marriage remain secret until the matter is resolved? Will you be granting lands to Sandor to hold as you had planned, in the event that it comes to battle with the Boltons? What was the solution that Jon proposed?”

Robb sighs and finally moves to sit beside Talisa, patting her hand. “It has been a difficult decision,” He admits softly, “And it was only once Jon pointed out all the merits to me that I agreed. If all goes well then eventually I do mean to grant lands to you to hold, but that will come in time. For the moment, I mean to send you both away, along with Arya.” 

There is an uproar at that, a loud query from Lady Catelyn as to the reason and why Arya must go with them, an excited response from Arya to ask where they will be going, and Sansa’s own surprised voice asking why. Sandor is silent but looking up at him, Sansa sees the look of reckoning in his eyes as he thinks on her brother’s words. 

Robb holds up his hand yet again to silence them all and they quiet, waiting for his explanation. “I hope that all may yet be well,” He tells them seriously, “But we could be at war yet again soon, whether it is with the Boltons and the Freys or the Others. Talisa’s child is my heir, but Sansa and Arya are next in the line of succession. Should the worst occur, should we be defeated and our house fall, I wish them to be elsewhere, safe and able to one day reclaim their birthright. Would that I could send Talisa with you as well, but it is not possible with her time so near.” 

“I would not consent to leave you anyway.” Talisa murmurs quietly, and by her lack of surprise Sansa knows that Robb has already discussed this course of action with her. 

The rest of them are silent as they all think upon it, and Robb fixes his eyes upon Sandor then. “I know that you will protect them, and that if such a day should come to pass, that you would see that the traditions of our House are honoured. I will be naming Sansa as next in line of succession after Talisa’s child, and her eldest son after her.”

“I will see that they’re both kept safe, and our babes raised as Starks if the worst occurs.” Sandor replies, “Though I’ll hope that such a day never comes to pass.”

Robb nods at that, “As we all hope it may not. Yet there is another purpose to sending you away. I mean to send you to Essos, as my envoys to the Targaryen princess. If she truly does have dragons and means to retake Westeros with them, then we must establish a dialogue with her as soon as may be. Our father rebelled against the last Targaryen King and I know not what she thinks of our family, but if she should bear a grudge towards us then it could well mean our ruin.” Robb turns towards Sansa then. “You are well skilled at diplomacy, Sansa, and if anyone might convince this Targaryen to enter into an alliance with us then it is you. If the threat of the Others is as dire as Jon predicts and she really does have dragons, then we may well need her before the end.”

“I will do my best, Robb. I will not fail our people.” Sansa tells him softly.

“And if she should hold a grudge, and kill your sisters to seek revenge for her own family’s deaths?” Lady Catelyn frets, “What then? She has no reason to have any love for Clegane either, considering his brother’s actions.”

“And yet Sandor was the one to kill his brother, and thus bring justice to the killer of her goodsister and nephew.” Robb points out, “We may hope that the news of that has reached Essos by now. I will not unnecessarily send you into any danger though. Lord Manderly will provide you with a ship from White Harbour to Saltpans, and from there across to Pentos. There you are to stay to gather information about this Targaryen and her dragons and send a message to her. If she accepts you as envoys under a banner of peace then you may travel to her, wherever she may be. I trust you to judge for yourselves whether the risk is too great.”

“Dragons.” Sandor mutters half under his breath before he raises his voice, “Are you sure you’re not seeking your revenge against me for this match?”

Robb laughs at that, though grimly. “I promise you that it’s not so. This is the best and the safest course of action for our House. You will leave the morning of the wedding, along with Jon and his guard as if to escort them part way, and then turn to your own road. I shall let it be known that my sisters have been sent away to safety with Clegane to guard them. I ask that you keep the marriage secret until reaching Essos, after that you may live freely as man and wife. That way the news shall not reach here for a few months at least and by then all of our fates may already be decided.”

“Is it necessary to send Arya too?” Lady Catelyn asks worriedly, “Both of my girls, and so soon after we’ve regained them. The journey is dangerous, Robb, and this Targaryen…”

“Arya goes with them.” Robb replies, his tone brooking no opposition. His eyes light upon his younger sister then and he smiles sadly. “I expect it’s what she wants, that she would prefer the chance of adventure to remaining here.”

Arya nods eagerly, happy at the prospect of the journey that awaits them. She grabs Sansa’s hand and squeezes it, her excitement palpable. 

“Then we all understand what is to happen and what our parts are in it.” Robb concludes, “It is short warning to prepare and pack, but I shall be sending you with enough funds for whatever you may need once you arrive there and letters for the banks besides. There is one day remaining until you leave, but I would ask that you not give away our plans or say any goodbyes. Prepare yourselves as well as you can, and then the day after tomorrow we shall farewell you after the wedding.”

It is almost too much to process, all at once, and Sansa works her mind around it, unconsciously reaching out for Sandor as she stands, her thoughts in turmoil. He takes her hand before she’s even realized that she’s made the gesture and grips it tightly before letting go, placing his hand on her shoulder instead and moving to escort her and Arya back to their room. 

They make the short journey to the room in silence, passing nobody on the way, and when they have reached their room, Arya enters first before Sansa gestures to Sandor to join them inside. 

“Not what we thought would happen, little bird.” He rasps once they’re all in with the door shut, “And yet we’d planned to go to Essos along with your sister if our efforts failed.”

“That we did,” Sansa murmurs, “Though now we go as official envoys of the King of the North, rather than as lovers eloping. Will you be fine with it, with the dragons?”

“Aye, as long as they don’t come too close to me.” Sandor replies, though she can see the slight fear in his eyes at the thought. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, we need to see if this Targaryen will agree to meet with us first.”

“Just imagine, dragons!” Arya exclaims, “And we’ll see the cities of Essos – Pentos, maybe we could even go to Braavos? Syrio was from there. We’ll see so many things that most people never get the chance to!”

“I knew you’d be happy about it as soon as your brother announced it, brat. No need to be a lady or marry some buggering lordling for some years yet now.”

Arya grins happily in agreement, and moves towards her trunks and cupboards to begin sorting her things for the journey, giving them what privacy she is able. 

“Are you happy?” Sansa asks him in a low voice, “It is not what we had planned, nor what we had hoped for when you asked Robb for my hand.”

He looks down at her and she can see his face perceptibly soften, can clearly see the love that he holds for her. “We’ll be married, and with your family’s blessings besides, and that’s more than I ever hoped for.” He replies, reaching out to caress her cheek, his finger trailing roughly down it. “We’ll come back one day safe and sound, you’ll see, then your brother will grant some castle or keep to us, and we’ll live out our days there. Winter might be coming, as your family is so fond of saying, but it won’t last forever.”

Sansa nods her agreement, her courage rising as she hears his words. They have overcome so much already, and no matter what occurs now they will be together. She may be leaving her home and family for now, but there is the possibility of returning, of one day having everything that she has dreamed of. 

She reaches up to tug his head down so that he might kiss her, and Sandor winds his arms around her waist, pressing her against him. They have missed each other in the last days, since her brother’s acceptance of his suit, and Sansa knows that it will be a challenge to conceal their marriage while they travel, until they have reached Pentos. 

“In one day’s time we’ll be married,” Sansa whispers when they finally part, her hands cupping his cheeks as he remains bent over her. 

“Aye, that we’ll be, and your brother’s a buggering fool if he thinks I won’t be bedding you until we’ve reached Essos.” Sandor comments, his lips twisting into a sly grin. “Your sister will need to get used to sleeping alone sooner rather than later.”

“As if I’m not used to Sansa sneaking out in the night already.” Arya comments from the corner of the room where she’s laying out clothes to check their suitability. “Anyway, you’re hardly married yet, and I’d prefer not to know anything more about what you’d like to do once you are.”

Sansa blushes bright red at that but Sandor simply laughs, kisses her quickly once again and announces that he’s leaving to put his things in order. 

As the door closes behind him, Sansa goes to examine her own things, beginning to sort through clothing and possessions in the same manner that Arya is. Lifting out her set of daggers from where she had kept them, she strokes the leather of one of the sheaths, before pulling the dagger out to examine its edge. She shall wear them again while they journey, the Stark sisters and their blades will ride once again. Sansa gives a soft laugh at the thought of it and turns to tell Arya, when she spots her sister looking at the helm that Gendry had crafted for her.

“Robb said that we’d be stopping in Saltpans before we go across to Pentos, do you think we might try and find Gendry while we’re there?” Arya asks Sansa earnestly, “It’s only that I feel I should thank him for the helm. The last time I saw him I called him an idiot and I’m sure he must have gotten a bit smarter since then.” She pauses again, tilts her head as she thinks of him.

“I’m sure we could delay by a few days so you can try to find him.” Sansa reassures her, “I know that he was a good friend to you and that you wouldn’t wish to leave Westeros without meeting him.”

“Oh thank you, Sansa!” Arya exclaims, grinning. “Just wait, this is going to be the most exciting adventure ever.”

Sansa can’t help but agree with her sister.Her life might have turned out to be many things, but quiet is not among them.

When she was younger she had wished that her life could be like a song. When they had left Winterfell, headed for King’s Landing, Sansa had thought that that had been the beginning of it, and perhaps she had been right. 

A song at first filled with tragedies, a young maiden surrounded by enemies on all sides, only to be saved by a most unlikely hero. 

In years to come it may be that the minstrels really do make a song of it, just as they’ve made one about the battle with the Freys.

Sansa is certain now, she is confident, that this song shall have a happy ending.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a rather hard time doing so, but it's time to finally let this one go. And so here is the last proper chapter of the story before we reach the epilogue.

Chapter 30

It is still the dark of night when her bastard brother comes to collect him, a lantern in Jon Snow’s hand to light the way. 

Sandor is dressed in his best breeches and boots and one of the tunics Sansa had sewn for him while they were on the road here, his sword belted at his waist. He’s prepared himself as well as he’s able, his hair freshly washed the night before, combed over the burned side of his face to partly cover it. He’ll never be pleasant to look upon but he’ll do his best not to shame her. When she looks at him now… when she looks at him, he almost forgets the scars are there at all, that there is anything that needs to be covered. 

The rest of his belongings are already packed and stowed in Stranger’s stable apart from the clothes he will change into after the ceremony – his armour, what clothing and items he means to carry and the remains of his tourney winnings. He owns little enough that it was no great task to choose what to take with him, he has simply left his oldest and most worn clothing behind. 

Sandor gives Lord Commander Snow a gruff nod and murmured greeting in reply to other man’s smile and they set out for the godswood, the cloak with the sigil of House Clegane thrown over one arm. His heart thumps in his chest and he feels as if his hands are sweating even in the chill morning air. He had never thought to marry, had never believed there would be a woman who would want him. Now this morning against all odds he will claim his little bird in the sight of her family and her gods, and from that point onwards no man shall have the right to separate them.

She will be his to protect and to love, his by all rights known to man. Even had she never loved him he still would have been hers regardless, would have watched over her his entire life if given the opportunity. There was a time, before he left to kill his brother, when he had believed that that would be his fate and all he could ever hope for. Yet she loved him, and slowly she has remade him into a new man, the man whom he should have been. She has convinced him, over and over again, that he is deserving of her, deserving of her love, and he has come to believe that it is so. There are moments of doubt still, but those are easily smoothed by a loving smile, a gentle touch. 

Life is uncertain and they may yet all die upon the quest they embark upon, but it would be no more certain if they were to remain here and claim the Hornwood lands. He’ll hope that his little bird manages to charm the dragon queen as thoroughly as she managed to capture his own heart, and then all will be well. No matter what’s to come, they’ll be together in it, her brat of a little sister along with them; his to protect now as well as he would any true sister of his blood. 

Reaching the Heart Tree, Jon Snow puts down his lantern and whistles, calling the direwolves to them. Sandor shakes out his cloak and places it around his shoulders, tying it as Jon reaches out to pet first his own massive beast and then his brother’s. Sandor is not bothered by the direwolves’ presence, they seem to like him well enough and he’s always liked animals better than men. It’s a lucky thing, he thinks, to have his bride’s house sigil there to witness their union. 

In time, Lady Catelyn appears with Talisa, guiding her gooddaughter gently, another lantern in her spare hand. She spares not a look for either Sandor or Jon when she arrives, though Talisa smiles broadly at them both, settling herself upon a nearby stone to wait. 

They do not need to wait for long. A rustling of leaves announces the approach of Sansa upon Robb’s arm, Arya walking beside her and for once well groomed and wearing one of the gowns that her mother favours.

Sansa herself is radiant, utterly perfect and shining in her joy. Sandor cannot help but swear under his breath, he is the luckiest of all men. She is dressed in a rather simple white gown, her hair left loose, her maiden’s cloak of white and grey upon her shoulders, and all her smiles are for him and him alone. 

He will have a lifetime of them now, a lifetime by her side to bask in them. 

There in the darkened godswood, with the leaves rustling overhead and the low rumbling of the direwolves as they greet her, Sandor Clegane finds that perhaps he believes in the gods after all. 

Arya leaves her sister’s hand then and goes to stand with the other witnesses, assisting Talisa to stand. Robb leads Sansa to Sandor’s side, placing her hand into his, and for a moment he forgets what he’s meant to be doing, cannot think of anything except the love that he sees upon her face, all for him, every single bit of it. 

“My beautiful little bird,” He murmurs as he looks down at her. “You’ll become mine now?”

“You know that I already am.” Sansa replies, eyes shining and such a pure expression of happiness on her face that it almost knocks him back a step.

Robb Stark clears his throat and finally they kneel before the Heart Tree, her hand in his. He grips it tightly, almost afraid that if he lessens his grasp on her that this may all turn out to be a dream.

“In the presence of the bride’s family members, I ask the gods both old and new, to bear witness to and bless the marriage of Sansa of House Stark to Sandor of House Clegane.” Robb Stark intones seriously, as Jon Snow kneels to wind a leather cord to bind their joined hands together. “You may now say your pledges to one another, and by these vows be forever bound.”

“I am hers, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days.” Sandor vows, his gaze firmly fixed upon her, her hand held tightly in his. His voice does not waver, there is no doubt now. For her, he will be the best man that he might be, the best husband that it is possible to be.

“I am his, as he is mine, from this day until the end of my days.” Sansa answers, her voice ringing out bright and clear, the confidence in it apparent to all. 

They stand and Jon steps forward to unwind the cord from their hands, while Robb bends to untie Sansa’s maiden’s cloak, kissing her softly upon her cheek as he does so. It is time for Sandor to untie his own cloak then and he fumbles only slightly as he does so, too eager to complete the ceremony that will see them married. He stands behind her and carefully places it upon Sansa’s shoulders, then reaches around to tie the knot tightly so that it may not come undone before he moves his hands to smoothe it over her shoulders, settling it properly. She looks down at the cloak and at his hands, then twists her head to look up at his face, and they cannot help but grin at each other, at a deed long planned and now accomplished. 

“What the gods have united, let no man put asunder.” Robb announces, “You may now seal your union with a kiss.”

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.” Sansa recites, drawing closer to him as she does so.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.” Sandor replies, and moves to do exactly as the line proclaims he should, and gladly so.

He sweeps her up, his hands on her waist to lift her, and she winds her arms around his shoulders as he claims her lips. They do not prolong it, conscious of the eyes of her family upon them, and when he pulls back from her, Sansa tilts back her head and laughs joyously. He puts her back upon the ground and for a moment her gaze is directed towards the Heart Tree, and he hears her whisper a thank you. 

It is time for her family to congratulate them then and they do so happily for the most part, both of her brothers clapping him on the back and shaking his hand, Arya hugging him enthusiastically. Talisa goes so far as to kiss him upon his unburnt cheek in congratulations before she goes to congratulate her goodsister. Only Lady Catelyn remains slightly aloof, though she hugs her daughter and kisses her cheek, murmuring a hope that she might be happy. To Sandor she merely nods. He cannot blame her for it, had he a daughter as precious as Sansa then he wouldn’t want her marrying a man like him either. 

When they are done with the congratulations, Robb Stark announces it is time to return to the Keep, that they might break their fast and change into their travelling clothes before they leave. Sansa reluctantly removes her bride’s cloak, passing it into Arya’s possession with a whispered request to pack it along with the maiden’s cloak, and suddenly with the others departed, they are left alone.

It is still dark and she looks up at him happily, her smile almost a sun in itself. He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, trailing his finger down her cheek in a caress.

“From this day, until the end of my days.” Sandor murmurs, looking down at her with nothing less than complete and utter adoration. She is his, after all, and always shall be. There is a sudden wetness in his eyes, and he feels it trail one cheek as she raises one hand to his face. 

“From this day, until the end of my days.” Sansa replies, her voice filled with promise and certainty, her own eyes wet with tears, and moving her hand to the back of his neck, she tugs his head down to kiss him. 

They allow themselves to linger this time, her mouth opening under his, allowing him greater access as he holds her tightly about the waist, his hands firm upon her hips. 

The sky is brightening though and they have made a promise that the marriage will remain a secret for now, so they release each other and walk back to the Keep, just a little distance apart. 

**

Changed into their travelling clothes, with their fineries now packed for the journey, they meet again in the Lord’s Solar for a last meal before they leave. Robb Stark toasts them with mead, it being far too early in the day for wine. Their wedding banquet consists of fresh bread, eggs, cheese and sausages, yet it is the best meal that Sandor can remember ever eating. Sansa sits beside him, her thigh touching his, eating her own breakfast and discussing details of their journey with her brothers. He cannot help but reach out to touch her at times, his hand brushing her own or resting on her knee just to reassure him that it is real. She is dressed sensibly now, in a warm green travelling dress, and he can’t help but feel a swell of pride to see the dagger he gave her once again strapped to her wrist. 

He is silent for the most part, allowing her these last moments with her family, when they may not see them again for months or years to come. The first parting comes when the meal is concluded, from their goodsister, who will not be accompanying them down to the yard. Talisa bids Sandor farewell with a smile and a wish for a safe journey before she embraces Sansa and Arya, whispering some last advice into the new bride’s ear. Lady Catelyn also chooses to say proper goodbyes to them here in private, knowing that the girls’ departure is not yet meant to be common knowledge and that in the yard below she must bid them farewell as if nothing is amiss. 

She hugs them both tightly and kisses them, with admonitions to stay safe and ensure that they take no unnecessary risks, shedding a few tears as she does so. His little bird cries too, though Arya remains cheerful, both girls assuring their mother that they will see her again, one day not too far in the future.

It is then that Lady Catelyn fixes her gaze upon Sandor, speaking to him for the first time since the announcement that he and Sansa would marry.

“You will bring them back safely.” She states, a need for reassurance in her gaze.

“Aye, that I will.” He affirms, and she gives him a curt nod before turning back to her daughters, hugging them goodbye once again.

They leave by the East Gate, together with Jon Snow and his guard, Robb Stark and his direwolf accompanying them. When they are out of sight of the Castle, they dismount and it is time for the second farewell.

“I’ll be waiting to hear of all your adventures,” Jon Snow tells Arya cheerfully, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “Maybe when you’re back from Essos you can come visit me at the Wall.”

“I’d like that,” Arya replies and hugs him with all her strength, “You stay safe, Jon. Don’t be an idiot and let a Whitewalker kill you, I’d miss you terribly.” 

They all laugh at that and Jon moves to hug Sansa before clasping Sandor’s hand briefly. Robb Stark says his own goodbyes to his sisters, repeating instructions that they have already memorized, and telling them to stay safe.

Lastly, Robb turns to Sandor, reaching out to clasp his hand as Jon had done. “I’m glad to have you as my goodbrother, Clegane.” Robb Stark announces. “I trust you to see this through, keep them safe and see them home again.”

“You have my word.” Sandor promises him, and finally they part. There are tears in Sansa’s eyes as she watches her brothers ride off and she hesitates as Arya climbs back onto her own horse, looking towards the south where their path now lies. 

Sandor approaches her, clasps his arm around her shoulder for a moment and then leads her towards Stranger, lifting her easily up onto his back. He moves to tie the reigns of her horse to Stranger’s saddle, smiling at her look of query.

“Just until we’re a way down the road,” He tells her, and swings himself up in front of her. 

She winds her arms around his waist tightly, tucks her head in against his back and closes her eyes.

**

They are more than two weeks upon the road to White Harbour. Travelling alone, they make good progress, allowing the horses their heads and stopping at night to rest. Towns and inns are few and far between, and more often than not they find themselves lying upon bedrolls under the trees. On those nights the most that Sandor might allow himself is to place their bedrolls together, wind his arms around his wife and gather her close, to sleep with her head pillowed upon his chest. 

On the nights when they are lucky enough to be able to stay in an inn however, it is a different story. They take two rooms, one supposedly for the sisters and the other for him, and take their time to bathe and give their dirty clothes to the washerwomen to be returned in the morning. The first night they were able to find an inn, their third night upon the road, he had barely been able to contain himself, to wait until it would be safe for her to come to him. 

Yet her soft knock had come upon the door once it was safe for her to do so, and wrenching it open he’d pulled her inside, slammed it shut and proceeded to cover her in kisses. A bed they had at last, and more hours in which to lie together than they’d ever had previously, before she must leave him to return to her own room. 

“You have missed me then?” She asks him with a touch of mischief in between kisses, knowing well what the answer is. 

“And you’ve not missed me, wife?” He asks her, relishing the taste of the word upon his tongue. 

She laughs, enjoying the playful banter, and raises a hand to push back the hair that falls over his face. 

“Yes, I’ve missed you.” She tells him sweetly, earnestly. “We have had a strange courtship indeed. Three days married and yet to go properly to bed.”

“Aye, well it was mighty cruel of your brother to make us leave the morning of our wedding, though it would not have been a secret for long if I’d been seen in your chamber that night.” 

Sandor is still at least partially convinced that it was some notion of revenge of King Robb’s for the secret they had kept from him. 

“Well here I am now, and we have until the dawn.” Sansa tells him, her hand now toying with the edge of his tunic where it opens at the neck, blushing slightly at her own boldness. 

It is all the invitation that he needs to scoop her into his arms and carry her to the bed, kissing her soundly all the while. She laughs as he let her go, divesting himself of his tunic before he settles beside her, one hand resting on her hip and the other tangled in her hair as he loses himself in her lips.

It is a difficult thing that first night, to restrain himself and wait, yet he does so, eager to please her and to see her sated before he takes his own pleasure. And so they take their time, whispering and laughing for the sheer joy of the act and the knowledge that there is no wrong in it, no reason to stop themselves. He takes his time to worship her, as surely and with as much fervor as she might worship her own gods. It is with a fierce pride that he sees her achieve her own release before he allows himself his, he will let nothing to be lacking in the way he loves her. 

There is pleasure and joy to be found even in drifting off to sleep with her in his arms, no barriers between them as she curls into him, even if she must leave him before dawn breaks. It is only temporary, once they have reached Essos there will be no more need to hide, and he might claim her as his wife in the sight of all.

It is hard to let her go in the morning when she must return to her own room, and he holds her tighter and murmurs into her hair as she turns to kiss him, coaxing him with sweet words to let her go that they might not be discovered. He helps her with her gown then and checks that the hallway is clear before she goes to knock on the door of the room she shares with Arya and be admitted.

By the time they reach White Harbour, Lord Manderly has already departed it, gone with his son to attend Robb Stark’s council meeting of bannermen. His steward greets them in his stead, escorting them immediately to the ship that will be taking them on their voyage and seeing their comfort is ensured before he leaves them, commanding the Captain to cast off. 

Their days take on a new routine then, sitting upon deck during the day to watch the landscape pass or matching each other at cyvasse, a game from Essos that the sailors have introduced them to. On days when the ocean is particularly calm, Sandor and Arya spar as he puts her through her paces in the drills she must practice while Sansa sits with her sewing or a book, watching them and oft laughing at the outcome. When night falls, his wife will knock softly upon the door to his cabin, joining him within his narrow bunk. It is not always lovemaking; they will talk, and laugh, and sometimes only hold one another. She will sing for him sometimes, the songs which she knows he loves best though he has never told her. He feels it is a wondrous thing to lay his head upon her lap and have her gentle fingers stroke through his hair while she does so. 

He had never known that marriage could be like this, this surety and quiet confidence, the peace that these moments bring. Before Sansa, he had never known quiet, had never known the simple pleasure of sitting together in companionable silence or lying together with arms entwined. Every day there is something new to discover and it is a lucky thing that they have a lifetime to do so. 

He had come to her that night in King’s Landing filled with fear and looking for a measure of comfort before he left, the opportunity to do one good deed after he had turned craven. He had come that night to save her but she has surely saved him instead, has brought him peace and a happiness that he could never have imagined possible. 

It is difficult sometimes not to doubt, not to fear, but always she is there with a smile in those moments, and that is all that he needs. She looks at him and he believes that he can be a good man, the right man for her, one who will always keep her happy and safe. She looks at him and he knows that he will always do his utmost to be the man that she believes him to be. 

‘My love’, she calls him sweetly, or ‘Husband’ when they are alone and the mood takes her. Her little sister, who is his now as well, calls him ‘goodbrother’ sometimes, usually in an effort to get her own way. He finds that these epithets suit him far better than The Hound ever did. 

There is undoubtedly a long journey ahead of them, one filled with great challenges, but they have already travelled far to be where they are. In the future they may have a keep or a castle to call their own, or remain as exiles in Essos, living from one day to the next. It is not something to worry about for now though, not when there is so much to be thankful for. 

His wife hums a sweet tune under her breath as she sits upon his bunk, passing a comb through her hair while he sits upon a chair nearby, reading a book on High Valyrian to prepare himself for their arrival. 

“Will you not join me, my love?” She asks him when she has finished, a blushing smile upon her face.

He gives her a smile in return and moves to do so. 

And wherever life takes them it will be her that he shall live for and this new life that they make together; for they shall always have each other and these moments. 

A thousand times over, again and again, until the end of their days.


	31. Epilogue

Epilogue

 

Finally, they dock at the Saltpans. The Captain had intended to be there two days, no more, long enough to replenish their stocks and give the men some shore leave. Yet Arya has been pleading to be allowed time to find Gendry for the entire journey there and neither Sansa nor Sandor have the heart to refuse her, not when she has helped them so. Convincing the Captain to delay for a few days longer, they set out for the Inn at the Crossroads, Arya excitedly chatting away to both of them about her memories of the boy they’ve set out to see. 

It is only when they have almost reached their destination that she becomes quiet, seemingly nervous to see her friend again when so much time has passed. It has been almost a year since they ransomed her from the Brotherhood without Banners, a year in which much has changed. 

They ride into the yard of the inn, Arya vaulting off her own horse while Sandor assists Sansa to dismount from hers. She smiles her thanks and tucks her hand into the crook of his arm as they walk forward, following behind her little sister. It is these little moments that she loves, the freedom to touch him as she wishes, even if it is just to rest upon his arm. The sound of metal ringing against steel rings out from the attached smithy and they follow it, Arya pausing in the doorway until the boy notices them. 

Sensing visitors, he puts down his hammer and looks up, gaping once he’s spotted her. 

“What are you doing here?” Gendry asks Arya, seeming not to be able to process the fact that she’s actually there. 

“I came to find you.” Arya announces, “To say thank you for the helm you gave me. It’s the best work I’ve ever seen. Better even than the Bull helm that you used to have.”

Gendry continues to stare at her, perhaps taking in the way she’s grown since he last saw her, the fine gown she wears with its split skirts and breeches underneath, her longer hair. Sansa sees the way that he looks at her younger sister, sees the slight hope spring within his eyes and is certain that he has regretted his parting from Arya. 

“I’m glad you liked it, I thought…” The boy begins to say and then pauses, “You’ve come all the way from Winterfell for that?”

Sansa glances at Sandor then, who seems to be resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

“We’re headed to Essos.” Arya announces, grinning as she shares it with him. “So much has happened since I last saw you, Gendry, so many battles and even I fought in one when some Freys attacked us. You really should have come with us, I’m sure it must be quite boring with the Brotherhood in comparison.”

“At least I’m my own master here,” Gendry comments a little surlily, “Even if I’d come with you I’d just be shoeing your brother’s horses or forging his swords.”

“That’s just because you’re a terrible swordsman.” Arya comments blithely, “If you’d come then Sandor would have taught you how to wield one properly and you could have fought in the battles too. He’s the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, you know, and now he’s my goodbrother.”

Sandor gives a soft snort at that, they both know that she refers to him as her goodbrother whenever she wants something from him and Sansa is beginning to realize exactly what it is that Arya does want.

“Your goodbrother?” Gendry asks Arya, clearly confused, seeming to notice Sansa and Sandor for the first time since the conversation began. He peers past Arya at them, muttering a “M’lady,” and a “M’lord” in greeting before he turns back to Arya. “What do you mean?”

“Oh he and Sansa fell in love and now they’re married.” Arya replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And you thought I’d become some high lady and not be friends with you any more. Well my sister’s always been a far better lady than me and she didn’t let that stop her from marrying her sworn shield. Robb was happy to have him as a goodbrother too once he got over his shock.”

Gendry takes a moment to process that and then looking at her younger sister, his face softens and he smiles. “Fine, I was wrong then, I admit it.” He tells Arya, “Now what’s this about you being off to Essos?”

“Oh it will be a marvelous adventure, we’re going as Robb’s envoys to the Targaryen princess there!” Arya replies, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “You should come with us, Gendry, it’ll be just like it used to be but far better, without everything horrible that happened then and with proper beds and food. You could learn how to use a sword from Sandor and become an actual proper knight, and we might even see dragons!”

Sansa has suspected that this was Arya’s intention in finding Gendry for some time now but she can’t suppress the small sigh that escapes her as she realizes precisely what is likely to occur now.

“Not happy with the idea, little bird?” Sandor asks, and Sansa can tell that he is struggling to hide his amusement.

“Not that… it’s just that our mother is never, ever going to forgive me.” Sansa replies despondently. “If Arya ends up marrying a bastard blacksmith turned knight, we’ll never be able to go back to Winterfell again.” 

Her husband laughs then and Sansa looks at him curiously, wondering why he finds it so funny. Sandor leads her slightly away from where Gendry and Arya are still arguing over the merits of him joining them and bends closer to share something with her.

“Cheer up, little bird.” He tells her, “This one might be a bastard blacksmith, but he’s the bastard of old King Robert, and Baratheons are in short supply these days. Gain the favour of the dragon queen and she might even legitimize him.” 

When Gendry begs leave to join their expedition, Arya grinning beside him, Sansa grants his request with a courteous smile. They’ll break the news of his parentage to him once they’re back on the ship again and Sandor will see to training him in swordwork. Sansa thinks it might be a good thing if she and Arya were to teach him to read and something of courtly behavior as well if there’s to be any hope of his claim being recognised. For now, they buy him a horse and head back to the Saltpans to reboard their ship. 

It is a long journey to Pentos, first up to Crackclaw point and then across the open sea to reach the coast of Essos. They dare not sail any further south along the coast of Westeros or they will be too close to both Dragonstone and King’s Landing, so instead they reach land to the north of Pentos and must sail south towards it, with the coast in sight. 

The days pass in an easy fashion, Sansa often reading books on dragons, the history of the Targaryen kings, and the grammar and structure of High Valyrian. She wishes to be as prepared as she can be before they reach Essos, though she does not know what awaits them there. Sandor joins her sometimes to read along with her or discuss politics and history, as Gendry and Arya go through the paces that he has set them or talk and bicker amongst themselves. 

Sansa is still not entirely sure that Gendry believes they are telling him the truth about him being King Robert’s bastard, though he says that it certainly explains why his master sent him away and why the Queen was hunting him. It seems to make remarkably little difference in the way he regards himself though as he continues to defer towards both herself and Sandor. He accepts Sansa’s strictures about attending to his lessons though and struggles through them, mouthing the words as he reads them and listening to her advice on proper courtly behavior and a lord’s responsibilities. Arya spends equal amounts of time assisting him and teasing him, though Sansa has caught the way that her sister regards the boy when he’s absorbed in his studies. 

She will not say anything, not until Arya comes to speak to her, to admit to it and ask for advice as Sansa knows she will. That time is not here yet and Sansa doubts that her sister is clear on her own feelings at this time. They are both young and there is time enough for anything that may occur. 

Their party arrives in Pentos, with all of its wonders, and for the first few days it is an effort just to settle in, to find a place to stay and suitable clothes for the climate, and to adjust to the accents of the people there. They rent rooms within an inn and for the first time Sansa is able to live freely with Sandor as man and wife, to rise as late as she wishes and not need to leave his rooms, to be as affectionate with him in public as she chooses. It is a heady sort of pleasure after so long a concealment and she occasionally needs to remind herself that she has the right, that there is nothing to stop them now. 

They make their enquiries about the Targaryen queen and are led to a merchant named Illyrio Mopatis, who insists that such honoured guests move into his manse and sends word to Daenerys Stormborn, First of her Name and Mother of Dragons. Knowing that he may be a powerful ally they relocate there to learn more of the queen and await her answer. Though the days are filled with new discoveries and experiences, they do not lose sight of their purpose and it is a relief when the answer finally arrives that they are free to join Daenerys Stormborn in the city that she now resides as peaceful envoys on a mission of diplomacy.

It is a long journey and occasionally fraught with dangers, but they eventually reach their destination and are ushered in to see her in the grand hall in which she sits, her dragons blessedly absent. 

She is young, Sansa realizes then, though there is a maturity to her that is at odds with her age. She must be no more than two to three years older than Sansa herself. This young queen has had a hard life, a life of difficult challenges that she has risen above. Sansa wonders if perhaps the similarity in their ages will help her cause, if she and the dragon queen might find that they have something in common besides their youth.

“Your Grace,” Sansa calls her as she takes the knee along with the rest of their party, “Khaleesi and Mother of Dragons. We come to you on a mission of diplomacy as envoys of my brother, Robb Stark, King of the North.”

The young woman regards them coolly for a moment, her warriors ranged around her seat and Sansa can see Sandor’s hand twitching near his sword belt, a nervous energy in him in case they have been played false. 

“The daughters of a man who rebelled against my father; the brother of the man who killed my goodsister and nephew; and the bastard of the man who killed my brother and usurped the throne. You are a strange party of diplomats indeed.” Queen Daenerys intones, looking down upon them. 

“And yet we have come to you under a banner of peace, intent upon healing the breach between our families and forging an alliance, and I hope that you may consent to listen to our words.” Sansa replies, forcing herself to remain calm even as she calculates the danger. 

Daenerys nods at that, “Arise.” She tells him, “I have heard stories of all of you except for Ser Gendry, and I would know if they are true. Did Lord Sandor truly slay his own brother, and bring justice to my family? There is also a song that has recently reached Essos and been played at my court, ‘The Stark Sisters and their Blades’. Are you and your sister truly such skilled warriors?”

Sansa rises then, gesturing for the others to follow her lead, and curtsies gracefully before the princess.

“Both stories are based in truth, Your Grace, and we would be happy to recount those tales and others besides. I wish to speak honestly with you about the current situation within the Seven Kingdoms, and to propose an alliance between our Houses.”

The young queen assents that they will open discussions upon the morrow and directs for the envoys to be given accommodation and food, and Sansa knows that the most important challenge has already been overcome.

**

Their days are busy within the queen’s court and when it finally begins to move, slowly but inexorably towards a port from where they may sail to Westeros, Sansa cannot help but be glad of it. She has become a valued companion of the young queen and will often sit with her to provide counsel upon Westerosi politics or customs, or simply to act as a friend, listening to the queen’s hopes and fears for the future. Sansa realizes that Daenerys has never had a proper friend before, has never known the companionship of ladies her own age who were not servants. She is pleased to be able to fill the role as Arya joins them on occasion as well, always in awe of the queen’s bond with her dragons and eager to hear about her battles.

Sandor has become a valued advisor upon military strategy and assists in the training of Daenarys’s army, slowly developing a grudging relationship of respect with the two knights that serve her. He ensures that Gendry stays by his side for most of the day, that the younger boy might learn military tactics and strategy as well as swordsmanship, and Sansa believes that Sandor enjoys the roles that he undertakes. 

They are on the move, camped under the open sky when letters from Robb arrive by messenger from the nearest port, a reply to her latest missive, two months after it was sent.

He conveys his pleasure that Daenerys has accepted their offer of an alliance and writes to ask her to hurry to Westeros, and for her assistance in overcoming the ancient enemy that now threatens them. 

There is much news to share with you, Sansa. A miracle has occurred and Rickon has returned to us, with the wildling woman Osha, who had kept him safe all this time on Skaagos. There is no word of Bran but we now know he survived the events of that day and I have hope that he may someday come back to us as well. Rickon asks for his sisters and hopes that you both may return soon. 

Roose Bolton is dead and Stannis as well, killed in the battle but not before he managed to slay the Bastard of the Dreadfort. Shireen remains with us at Winterfell, our ward as was her father’s wish, and I mean to keep her safe though her mother seeks to remove her. She will never sit the Iron Throne and in truth she has no wish to, we shall make her an alliance when the time comes. The majority of Lord Stannis’s troops remain with Jon at the Wall for now, though some have returned to their own lands now that their leader is gone. There is no candidate left to rule the Seven Kingdoms now except the Lannister pretenders and the time has come for Queen Daenerys to return lest the kingdom fall to war once more. I have enclosed a letter for her, beseeching her help in fighting the Others and pledging to bend the knee should she provide assistance. Jon sends grim tidings from the Wall and with Winter falling fast we feel the time is now almost at hand. Lord Manderly is arranging for ships to carry the Queen’s army across the Narrow Sea and by the time you receive this they will already be on their way. The ships will take the Queen and her forces directly to Eastwatch by the Sea should she agree, before they bring you to White Harbour, where I would have you wait for the outcome. I intend to send Rickon, Talisa and the baby there to wait out the end of this conflict just as soon as may be.

Come home, Sansa, there is no reason to delay now and you are all needed here. Little Eddard grows bigger by the day and we are eager for him to know his aunts. Come home with your husband and I will grant you lands and castle to hold as my bannermen, nobody shall object now. I’ll even find the Baratheon bastard that Arya favours some position within my service and raise him up, should the Queen choose not to legitimize him and grant him lands. Come home to the North where you are all needed and where your family awaits you.

Home.

Sansa looks across the tent they currently occupy to where Arya and Gendry laugh over a game of Cyvasse. Her sister has grown in the time they have been in Essos, in both body and maturity. She is still ever ready with an irreverent comment when the occasion presents itself but there is a gravity to her now as well as she grows into a young woman, a greater awareness of responsibilities and consequences. Gendry’s training as a knight has progressed, though there is still far to go. He has learned enough from his lessons to be able to pass as a nobleman if need be and Sansa and Arya continue assisting him in his learning. When he is only among friends and comfortable, he still slips back into old patterns of speech and Sansa is glad to see that he has not lost himself as they seek to make him ready for the role he will one day take.

Sansa reaches out her hand to take Sandor’s where he sits beside her, reading a letter of his own from Robb, doubtless more focused upon the strategic aspects of what is to come. He looks up to meet her eyes and squeezes her hand once, then raises it to his face to press it upon his cheek before he kisses her palm.

“We’ll be going home then, little bird.” He tells her gently, knowing precisely how she’s longed for it. 

“Together.” She replies, and leans forward to kiss him briefly, his lips warm upon hers, a reassurance of a long life together to come. 

Realising that something has occurred, that there is some news from Robb, Arya and Gendry pause in their game and turn to face them, an expectant look upon Arya’s face.

“We’re going home.” Sansa announces gladly, her voice ringing loud and true. 

The north and family call to them, and they shall go together. With Sandor by her side, Sansa takes her home with her wherever she may go, but now they shall return to where they truly belong. 

If all goes well then it will be an end to their travels, a chance to claim lands of their own, plant their roots and start a family. Things that she has longed for, even as she has relished their time together here in this strange land. There is still the question of the Others, but with dragons on their side surely they must now prevail. 

It seems to Sansa that her first song has finally found the right ending. 

It is time now to start a new ballad, one that shall be filled with simple moments and small happinesses, the truest and most beautiful song that there may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s where I get to waffle on for a bit as if I’ve won an academy award or something similar. I started this story in July just after watching both seasons of the show and working my way through all 5 books at record pace. I had no idea it would grow to be this big when I started it but I’m incredibly glad that I did start writing it and managed to get it to its end. It was started as a way of playing around with themes of redemption, and the effect that love and belief can have upon a person’s character development, and grew into a massive beast of a fic since then.
> 
> I’m incredibly happy that I decided to write it, not only because it’s given me many hours of enjoyment to do so but also because I’ve made some fantastic friends due to it. It sucked me deeper into the ASOIAF fandom and the Sansa x Sandor ship in particular, helped me discover the work of many talented writers, and led to the creation of some very strong bonds that I will now last beyond it. For the friends that I’ve made through it, you know who you are and I am grateful for you :) For everyone who’s reviewed, particularly those who have come back week after week to do so, every word has made a great deal to me. It’s given me far more confidence in my writing and spurred me to try and do my best. I hope that if we haven’t interacted before now that you’ll leave a comment to let me know what you thought!
> 
> And so here we go, 6 months later, more than 100k words, 31 chapters, 212 pages in a word document and we’re finally done! I will be writing more within the fandom, and upon Sansa and Sandor in particular. The next major one I post will be ASOIAF verse rather than tv verse and is a modern AU taking place post the events of ADWD. Even if Modern AUs aren’t normally your thing, I hope you’ll all give it a shot! After that, I’ll be back to the appropriate universe. There won’t be a sequel to this, as I don’t think I could sustain it, hopefully the epilogue wrapped everything up satisfactorily. If I’m inspired I might do some one shots on their journeys and future lives together though so if there’s something you’d love to see then drop me a message and I’ll try my best!
> 
> And so once again, thank you to everyone who has provided encouragement and support. I’ve greatly appreciated it and have been thrilled to have you with me on this journey till the end!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first post-epilogue postscript to Cut it Out and then Restart. A huge thank you to Kim for beta'ing for me!

By the time they arrive at Eastwatch by the Sea, Sansa knows that she is with child.

She had suspected it earlier, shortly after the beginning the voyage, and believes that their child must have been created during one of their last nights in Essos, as they held each other tightly within the tent they shared, whispering endearments and pouring their love into fierce kisses and caresses.

They had known that at the end of journey there would be another separation, another period of danger before they could be reunited. It has been so long since she has had to be parted from him that Sansa almost cannot stand the thought. She wishes that he might stay with them safely in White Harbour, to where they journey next, but his honour would forbid it. He plays an important role within Daenerys Stormborn’s army, and he will not let the queen or the host of men that he is in charge of down. Sansa knows that Sandor would not be able to stand to be safe and well in White Harbour while her brothers fight for the realms of men on the frontiers of the North. In the end it is not what she would truly want for him either.

So she suppresses her tears and her doubts, locks her fear deep inside her and prepares to bid him farewell – for only a short time, she tells herself.

She has already helped him to fasten his armour and now they stand together, reluctant to leave their cabin as yet.

He reaches out to caress her cheek, pulls her to him and places one warm, large hand over the slight swell of her belly where the child begins to show.

“I’ll do my best to be back before the babe is born.” he tells her, though she knows that he will have no control over how long it will be until they next see one another.

“We shall both be waiting for your return.” Sansa replies, a brave smile on her lips as she turns in his arms to face him. She lifts her hands to tug his face down to hers and captures his mouth, demanding and hungry with her kisses.

“I’ll not be able to leave you at this rate,” he rasps, breaking from her to look down upon her face, the first traces of grief beginning to appear in his eyes. She knows that he has never liked to leave her, that he is only truly comfortable when she is by his side.

“Remember that you are mine, and the Others have no right to take you from me.” she tells him sternly, suppressing the tears she wishes she could shed.

“I’d kill the Stranger himself if I had to in order to return to you, little bird. Believe that.” he promises her before kissing her once more, lingering and bittersweet.

They make their way to the deck where Arya and Gendry wait. Queen Daenerys has already gone ashore together with her knights, and Sansa and Arya had farewelled her earlier. Gendry shall accompany Sandor into battle, keen for the chance to have his share of heroic deeds. Sansa hopes that that is what it will come to, that they will not… no, she will not allow herself to think it. Their forces will prevail and it will become a story to be told for generations to come.

Arya had argued for the opportunity to fight alongside them, and Sansa is glad that Sandor has managed to persuade her otherwise. Her little sister was convinced only by the argument that she must remain in White Harbour to protect her remaining family members, should the worst occur. It is a relief to Sansa that Arya will not be exposed to such dangers, and yet the very idea of the worst occurring chills her to her bones.

As soon as they have appeared on deck, Arya moves to farewell Sandor, hugging him tightly as he brings a hand up to ruffle her hair.

“Keep your sister safe, and yourself too.” he tells her gruffly and she nods sincerely.  
Sandor moves to kiss Sansa one last time then, tangling his fingers in her hair, leaning to touch his forehead to hers.

“You’ve always come back to me,” she whispers to him.

“And I always will.” he assures her, gives her one more quick kiss and moves to let her go.

They turn in time to see Arya launch herself at Gendry, throwing her arms around him and giving him a quick, hard kiss upon the mouth. He barely has time to respond before she lets him go, telling him, “And don’t you dare get yourself killed, you idiot.” before hurrying away from him to stand with her sister.

Sandor gives a sudden bark of laughter at this, “Don’t worry, brat, I’ll keep him alive for you. Wouldn’t want to deprive your lady mother of the chance to kill him herself when she finds out about this.”

They leave then, as Sansa stays upon the deck holding onto her sister, one hand placed upon her stomach as she watches until he is out of sight, seeing him turn around every so often to look for her. She does not even realize that she’s crying until Arya reaches up with one hand to gently wipe her cheeks.

“Don’t worry, Sansa, they’ll come back.” Arya tells her sister sincerely, “There’s the dragons after all, and they’ll be with Robb and Jon and Ghost and Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan. There’s no way that they can lose.”

“They will come back.” Sansa agrees resolutely, as the Captain calls for the ship to cast off and she and Arya both turn for one last look at the shore.

And when they do, may it be the last parting that Sansa has to endure.

/

It is difficult to wait in White Harbour, wondering what the outcome will be, waiting for the occasional ravens that the Maester at Castle Black sends with news.

Old fat Lord Manderly is kind to them and sees that they want for nothing, and Sansa and Arya move into a shared chamber together, overlooking the ocean. The lord’s granddaughters are soon counted as good friends, and many days are spent together at one task or another.

The reunion with Rickon and Talisa is a tender one. Their little brother has grown so much since they last saw him, he is now bigger than Bran was when they had first left Winterfell. He shows a strong tendency towards both wildness and stubbornness but the wildling woman who had looked after him, Osha, is able to keep him in check. Despite his time away, he remembers his elder sisters and enjoys sitting with them, demanding stories of their time away – of battles and dragons and far off exotic lands – and declares them better than any fairy stories. When his youthful spirit is too much to contain then Arya takes him down to the courtyard to practice at swordwork or tilting at a quintain and the ring of happy laughter can be heard from below.

Sansa and Arya both coo over their new nephew, Eddard, now almost two years old and growing every day. He is a laughing, happy child, eager to explore and needing to be constantly watched lest he get himself into trouble. Sansa enjoys sitting with her goodsister, spoiling her nephew and discussing the ways of babies as she prepares sets of tiny clothes for her own child.  
The reunion with their mother is yet to come, Lady Catelyn remains at Winterfell to care for its inhabitants as its Lord sets out for war. In truth, she had refused to leave but insisted that her gooddaughter and grandson go to safety, denying the possibility that they might remain with her.

And so the days pass and Sansa waits as the child ever grows within her, finding ways to fill her days. The worry for Sandor is ever present within her, but she distracts herself by spending time with those she loves – seeing to Rickon’s education, teasing Arya over Gendry and listening to her admit her feelings with much embarrassment, discussions with Talisa about what has occurred in their absence, and with Osha about her time on Skaagos with Rickon.

There are dark moments, when a raven has not arrived for days, and Sansa begins to fear the worst. Will she never look upon his face again, will her child never know its father? There is so much to fear, the enemy is the most formidable that the realm has ever faced, unable to be killed by normal means. Despite the presence of Daenerys’s dragons and the knowledge that dragonglass can be used to kill the Others, it will be a formidable task. How should she live without him, should he not return? It is an impossibility, something that Sansa does not even want to consider, and yet for the sake of her child she knows that she must.

On the worst nights, Sansa takes to Arya’s bed, climbing in beside her and hugging her tightly while they both speak their fears. Arya remains optimistic, and Sansa wonders if it is mainly for her own sake, that her sister does not wish to compound Sansa’s worry with her own. There are days when Sansa cannot bring herself to even leave her bed, her fear sits so heavily upon her. She spends her time in the sept and godswood when she may, kneeling on stone or before the hearttree, beseeching whatever mercy and grace that she may.

The months go slowly and soon Sansa is heavy with child, her time almost upon her, when finally they receive the message that she has longed for since she was first parted from him.

The war is at an end at last, Queen Daenerys’s dragons proving to be the key to their battles, along with the dragonglass swords and arrowheads that each warrior weilded. They have lost many men, but Sandor has written that all those whom Sansa and Arya hold dear are well, and that they shall be together soon once again. The relief had been so great at Sansa had broken down in sobs, clinging to her   
goodsister who also shed some tears, as Arya danced around them with Rickon, laughing in her joy.

With the war an end, Sansa feels that even the air is somewhat warmer, as if signaling the return of a long awaited spring.  
Robb and the majority of his forces will march directly to Winterfell along Queen Daenerys and her army. Jon remains on the wall for the time being, seeing to repairs and to the welfare of the men of the Night’s Watch, though he hopes to join his family for a time someday soon. 

Sandor writes that he and Gendry shall take a ship from Eastwatch by the Sea directly to White Harbour along with the returning Manderly forces and Sansa finds herself waiting impatiently, her eyes most often turned towards the horizon, waiting for the first sight of the ship that will bear them. Talisa bids them farewell and leaves with Eddard, Rickon and Osha, accompanied by an honour guard. She is determined to reach Winterfell as soon as may be, longing for the reunion with her own lord husband.

On the day that the ship arrives, Sansa is unable to go to the docks to greet him, confined to her chambers for the past week now that her time is so near. Arya offers to stay with her, but Sansa will not hear of denying her sister her own reunion, one which she knows Arya has been desperately awaiting. So Sansa remains in her chambers, seated by the window so that she may see the moment that the ship lands; watching the happy crowds that have thronged the docks, cheering its arrival. She finds herself impatient, wishing to deny the maester’s advice and make her way there anyway, her concern for her child the only thing that stops her.

Sansa has had to learn far too much of patience for one lifetime, and it is sorely tested at this moment as she gazes longingly down, wishing that she could make out Sandor’s figures in the crowds.

She does not need to wait as long as she had feared, for within a half hour of the ship’s docking, she hears a commotion in the passage outside, a loud question muffled by the stone walls that immediately makes her heart sing. Her door is flung open with such force that it almost flies off its hinges and there, finally, after long months apart, stands her husband.

“Sandor,” is all that she manages to say, before he shuts the door and crosses the room, gathering her up and crushing her to him. She   
clings to him, crying all the while and babbling continuously – of how she’d missed him, how she’d feared for him, how she’d worried that he wouldn’t come in time.

“When you weren’t at the docks,” he finally says, pulling back to look down at her, his hands cupping her face, “I was afraid, I hadn’t thought to mark how much time had passed. Luckily that sister of yours told me exactly where you were.” He kisses her forehead before he claims her   
lips eagerly, his arms winding around her as hers go to her back and neck.

It feels as if no time at all has passed since she last saw him, since he last kissed her in this way. But Sansa is crying, and when she raises her hand to touch his face she can feel the wetness upon his own cheeks.

He picks her up as if she were as light as a feather despite her increased weight, and carries her to the bed, settling her gently upon it. Pulling off his boots, he climbs in beside her and wraps his arms around her, one hand placed protectively upon her belly, and buries his face into the crook of her neck.

“I’ve missed you, little bird.” he murmurs into her skin, placing a lingering kiss upon her neck. “It won’t be an easy thing to make me leave you again.”

“It’s alright now,” Sansa whispers, tangling her fingers in his fine hair where it falls upon his neck. “We’re together again now, a family, and everything will be alright.”

He raises himself, leans forward to place a tender kiss upon her belly, and then resumes his place at her side.

Sansa knows that they are both finally home.

/

She is brought to the birthing bed not two days later, and nothing will make him leave her side. He glares at the attendants the first time they suggest that he should absent himself, and after that nobody has the courage to raise the issue again.

It is a long labour, and several times Sansa fears that she does not have the strength to see it through, but Sandor clenches her hand tightly and encourages her, even as Arya holds her other hand, having banished Gendry to the hallway outside where he sits with the Manderly sisters. Together they keep her spirits up as she pushes and pants, exhausted but refusing to give up.

When their child enters the world, red faced and squalling and impossibly tiny, Sansa knows that this will always be one of the happiest moments of her life as she first gazes upon the baby’s face.

“Congratulations, Lord and Lady Clegane,” the midwife tells them, “You have a beautiful daughter.”

Sansa would have liked to laugh for the sheer joy of it when they place the baby in her arms, but she is so tired that all she can do is smile up at her husband as he stands with one hand on her shoulder, gazing down at them with an expression of wonder, his throat working as he struggles to swallow some strong emotion. They are alone in the room now, Arya having ushered the others out to give them some privacy.

“Your daughter, Sandor.” Sansa whispers, the baby held securely in her arms. “Our daughter.”

He reaches out to touch the baby’s face, the fine dark hairs upon her head, and is undone.

/

It will be some time before they depart for Winterfell, in order to give Sansa time to recover and for their baby to grow and become stronger. Sansa longs to reunite with her family once more, to introduce her daughter to them, though Arya has developed a sudden reluctance to return, seeking to delay their departure as much as possible.

Sansa cannot help but laugh at this, her normally fearless sister afraid to face their mother and tell her who she wishes to marry. She and Sandor promise Arya and Gendry that they will stand by them, and speak on their behalf. Sansa imagines that once Queen Daenerys legitimizes Gendry and grants him lands and lordship for his parts in the battle, that her mother’s approval will be a lot easier to come by.  
For now they enjoy their time together at White Harbour, at the simple pleasures of being together once more with nothing to fear. The weather is indeed becoming warmer and they often sit together on one of the balconies, basking in the afternoon sun.

Their daughter is a week old when they finally discuss names, never having had a chance to choose one before they were parted.

“Would you like to name her after your mother or sister?” Sansa asks Sandor gently, but he shakes his head resolutely.

“I would not like to give our daughter a name attached to such sad history. No, let us choose another name, little bird. What would you like to call her?”

Sansa has thought about it ever since their babe’s birth, of what name might be fitting for their child. At the back of her mind there has always been one name, a name that she had grown up hearing spoken in whispers and with grief. 

“Perhaps we might call her Lyanna?” Sansa suggests shyly, and Sandor looks up in surprise from their daughter’s face, his expression a question as to the reason.

“I know that my aunt’s end was a tragic one, and that her choices affected all seven kingdoms of Westeros, yet my father loved her greatly, loved her so much that he brought her bones from Dorne to Winterfell and built a statue in her image, though that honour had previously been reserved for the high lords. While her story ended unhappily, she chose her own path, much as I have done. If she had not done so, then perhaps none of this might have come to pass, perhaps I might never have met you, never have been born at all. She was fierce and brave and beloved, and I would not want her to be forgotten by our family.”

Sandor nods once, his expression serious, and takes the baby from her arms to hold within his own.

“Lyanna it is.” he agrees, and leans down to kiss their daughter’s cheek.

Much like Lyanna, Sansa has made her own choices, has defied her family for love. It is a different matter that Robb had agreed to their match in the end, else there may not have been much difference between her and her aunt.

She has fought for her own destiny, fought for the happy ending that she deserved and today she has that life. In time, Sansa knows that they will face other trials, perhaps other separations, but there is time for that yet.

For now she has her husband and daughter by her side, her sister nearby, and her future clear in front of her.

Sansa watches Sandor hold their daughter, walking her up and down in the afternoon sunlight and speaking soft words to her, and knows that whatever choices she has made, that they have been the right ones.


End file.
